


Rewrite the Stars

by lily_winterwood



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (at least I think it's mild it's not worse than your average Marvel movie), (but like to the side), Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Culture, Alien Victor Nikiforov, Alien/Human Relationships, Aliens, Alpha Christophe Giacometti, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Arranged Marriage, Artificial Intelligence, Empathy, Lesbians in Space, M/M, Mating Bond, Non-Graphic Violence, Space Opera, Space Royalty, Supporting Character Death, Telepathic Bond, Terrorism, Uhauling in Space, humans are space australians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 09:19:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 25,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14734265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_winterwood/pseuds/lily_winterwood
Summary: In his time as an officially-licensed companion with the Interplanetary Companionship Union, Yuuri Katsuki has witnessed so many extraordinary adventures and sights. From the death of a distant star in the Paulsen system to the kaleidoscope towers of the ancient city of Hayak, the galaxy bursts forth in boundless opportunities and immense beauty for him and the crews he accompanies.But nothing in the galaxy can ever compare to a fateful meeting at the Armistice Ball with the Crown Prince of Neva, Viktor Nikiforov.(Space Royalty AU ficlet series written for Royalty Week)





	1. oh dear diary i met a boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yuena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuena/gifts).



> So this is the AO3 version of the space royalty AU I posted during Royalty Week on Tumblr. You can read the original ficlets [here](https://omgkatsudonplease.tumblr.com/tagged/rewrite%20the%20stars/chrono), though this version has been cleaned up a little to account for continuity issues. 
> 
> Basically what happened was I put out a call for ficlet prompts via song titles and wrote this fic to those songs with a general theme and plot in mind. Each chapter title is pulled from lyrics of the song in question, if you would like to find them. 
> 
> Thanks everyone for your support! I greatly appreciate it.

In his time as an officially-licensed companion with the Interplanetary Companionship Union, Yuuri Katsuki has witnessed so many extraordinary adventures and sights. From the death of a distant star in the Paulsen system to the kaleidoscope towers of the ancient city of Hayak, the galaxy bursts forth in boundless opportunities and immense beauty for him and the crews he accompanies.

But not once during his years of travel has he ever set foot in the capital of the planet Neva, or traveled in hovercraft amid the hovering crystal spires of its vast capital. Moyka, the capital city of Neva, hovers at the edge of a vast waterfall, with the water churning into a deep beyond that has Yuuri clutching onto the edge of his seat with white-knuckled intensity. Next to him, his fellow companion Phichit claps his shoulders, his gaze tilted up towards the refracted afternoon light off the facades of the buildings they pass between on their way up to the royal palace.

“Did you know the Nevan name of the palace translates to ‘Great Heart’?” asks Phichit. Yuuri focuses his thoughts towards the horizon instead of on his imminent upset stomach. All around him other ships fly in a multitude of directions, all following pre-patterned flight patterns towards their destinations.

“You just looked that up, didn’t you,” Mila, the captain of their current crew, asks. She has the same icy blue complexion as all Nevans, her shocking red hair bouncing in its usual disarrayed curls as she looks out the window of their craft. “It’s been such a long time since I last saw Moyka.”

“Must be strange, coming back after running away from it for so long,” agrees Phichit. Yuuri feels his own heart twinge at that.

Most of their crew are out on shore leave either at the spaceport or the town nearby, not wanting to get tangled in the glittery opulence of the Nevan capital during Armistice Ball weekend. Beings from all over the galaxy are descending on the Great Heart this evening, celebrating the tenth standard anniversary of the end of the war between the United Federation of Interplanetary Civilisations and the Mandalan Empire. In the intervening years of the armistice, the cooperation between the Federation and the Empire has blossomed through trade and cultural exchange programmes. Mandalan Emperor Sakchai himself is rumoured to have taken on a Terran companion as a personal attendant in a gesture of goodwill.

As their hovercraft draws nearer to palace grounds, Yuuri’s breath is taken away all over again as he gazes up at the vast and intricate spires of the building. It reminds him of the holo images of old Terran cathedrals, but even more expansive and made out of glittering crystal and glass.

“It’s like an ice castle,” Phichit remarks. Yuuri swallows down the bolt of nostalgia for Earth that that phrase strikes into him, and presses his face closer to the windowpane.

They land as the sun dyes the Great Heart in a streak of rose gold iridescence. The palace complex is like a small city in and of itself, hovering in the middle of the vast ledge before the soaring waterfall. In the distance, the lights of the city begin to flicker on with the approaching dusk. Yuuri steps from the craft, shivering in the early twilight breeze.

Mila curses when she notices some other crafts parked nearby. “The media’s here to grab pictures of the Royal Family,” she says, extending an arm for her bondmate Sara. The Beta Allegrian shoots a bracing smile at Yuuri before she takes Mila’s arm, adjusting the folds of her dress.

“We should do something about your hair, my dear,” she says. Mila runs a hand through her curls, sighing.

“It’s no use. Besides, doesn’t this outfit already say ‘interplanetary explorer’?” Mila gestures to her sleek black ensemble. “And the more I can remind them that I’m the one who got away, the better.”

Sara laughs, before looking back at Yuuri. “You’re with us, right?”

Yuuri shuffles into place, plucking at his own suit. Phichit had claimed it would be stylish on Neva, but all he feels right now is ridiculous as he shuffles behind Sara and Mila on their way up to the palace gates. He turns back just as they join the throng, seeing Phichit adjust their helmsman Christophe’s tie just at the foot of the hovercraft.

“I don’t have to dance too much, right?” he asks.

“We didn’t bring you to dance,” replies Mila. “But if you want —”

“Let’s just get your royal pardon,” Yuuri says hastily, flushing yet shivering as the breeze hits the mesh panels of his suit. The crystals sparkle tauntingly at him from his hip and shoulder. “The sooner I get out of this and into human clothes, the better.”

“Don’t be xenophobic,” teases Sara. “It looks amazing on you.”

“I feel like I’m going to freeze,” Yuuri mutters.

“Didn’t you find the heating panel?” wonders Mila. She reaches over and presses one of the crystals. Yuuri yelps as his body is suddenly encased in heat. “Just move around a bit. It takes a while to adjust to Terran body temperatures.”

They clear security quickly enough, Mila presenting her invitation with confident grace. The only nerves she betrays are in her eyes; Yuuri can see Sara’s anchoring touch against her fingertips, trying to keep her from projecting her emotions too hard at the guards.

Between Sara’s background and Yuuri and Phichit’s jobs, the crew of the _Firebird_ are remarkably well-adjusted for a bunch of rag-tag space explorers. Mila’s emotions tend to explode out of her during moments of stress, whereas Christophe — like many other non-Beta Allegrians — sometimes secretes too many pheromones during his mating season. Somehow between Sara, Yuuri, and Phichit, they manage to keep everyone level-headed and the ship relatively in one piece — in fact, last week Yuuri had to perform an emergency vacuum seal on the port side of the ship, using nothing but duct tape and a pocket stasis field, after a rogue Tano managed to chew into the hull.

He and Phichit are good in tight situations. This situation isn’t supposed to be tight, but Yuuri feels the adrenaline all the same.

They step through the palace doors at last, their footsteps echoing across the crystal floors. Yuuri trails a little behind Sara and Mila, gaping up at the vaulted ceiling and the glowing walls which light their way towards the ball.

“I’ve never been in a royal palace before,” he says. “At least, not one that’s actually being occupied by a royal family at the same time.”

“The Nikiforov Dynasty has ruled Neva for twenty standard centuries,” remarks Mila.

Yuuri whistles. “I don’t think any rulers on Terra can claim that,” he says. “I think the closest is Japan, but even then theirs has only been around for about eighteen. And they’re not exactly in charge of things.”

“The King on Neva is absolute,” agrees Sara, patting her bondmate’s arm. “But his Princes have a great amount of power, too. That’s how Mila could come back.”

“My ticket home,” agrees Mila, waving her invitation with a smile. “I come here, I get pardoned, I visit my mother, we get the hell out of here. Let’s go find Prince Yuri; he’s supposed to give me the official pardon.”

Yuuri’s still not sure exactly what Mila had done on Neva that would warrant a royal pardon, but he keeps his thoughts to himself as they enter the vast ballroom. Wonder fills him at the sight of the intricate glass ceiling, at the two moons and different constellations that peer through the mullioned crystal. The roar of the waterfall here is muted by the triumphant swell of an orchestra of exotic instruments that he can’t name, of the clockwork turns of bodies across the dance floor.

“What a turnout,” Phichit’s voice says next to him. “The Nevans sure know how to party, huh?”

“It’s… a little old-fashioned?” Yuuri says, pulling him through the well-dressed yet writhing crowd. “I’ve only seen some of these dance moves from 21st century Terran holofilms.”

“Well, maybe it’s a retro ball,” says Phichit. “In which case, I’m so sorry for dressing you in modern fashion.”

Yuuri sends him a dirty look, but Phichit laughs and steers them over to a vast crystal fountain sparkling in the centre. Yuuri tries to reach out to the water, but it shys away from him every time he tries to touch it.

“Nevan tech,” says Phichit. “Just like Nevans themselves, sometimes. I imagine that’s part of the reason Mila got hitched — Nevans can be pretty touch starved when they’re unbonded.”

“Touch-starved?” asks Yuuri, looking pointedly towards several dancing Nevan couples. Phichit laughs.

“Yeah. Most of the population only has some basic touch-empathy, but if you can do anything more than just feel dim emotions from someone else, you get put on a government watchlist or something.”

“Is that why Mila needs a pardon?” asks Yuuri, frowning.

“I guess?” Phichit shrugs. “All Emil would tell me is that she was once a Candidate, and that’s a popular Discourse topic on Starboard. Everyone on the interneb is torn over whether the Candidate system is modern slavery or a bad reality tv show.” He pauses, and then grins. “Speaking of Starboard rumours, though. Did you know Prince Viktor is supposed to be here tonight?”

“Prince Viktor,” echoes Yuuri, mildly confused. “The one who crashed a hovercraft while racing it last week?”

“No that was Prince Yuri,” says Phichit. “Prince Viktor’s his older brother and currently first in line. Though probably not for long — he’s rejected all of his Candidates so far and his 30th is fast approaching. Too bad he keeps getting caught in the company of other species.”

“Must be scandalous,” Yuuri remarks.

“Yeah, they haven’t exactly legalised that here.” Phichit shrugs. “Apparently this ball is meant to be some last-ditch effort to make him pick someone for good.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think they thought _that_ through,” he mutters, “especially if they want to make him pick a Nevan. _Everyone_ is here. What if he picked a… I dunno, a Mandalan?”

“That would be wild,” agrees Phichit. “Maybe that’s exactly what he needs: a Spock to his Kirk.”

Yuuri snorts. “You know Spock and Kirk never actually _got_ together, right?”

“Let me have my fantasies about 20th century holovision shows,” retorts Phichit. Shaking his head, Yuuri ventures away from the fountain, picking up a glass of some vibrant blue liqueur on the way.

He’s so busy craning his head around trying to take in the entire room that he doesn’t notice where he’s going until he collides with someone, spilling his drink everywhere.

“Oof!” The person groans. Yuuri hisses, blinking away the sudden pain, an apology stumbling out of his throat as he takes a step back. “No need to apologise, it was my fault I was in your way!”

“No, I’m —” The words now stutter to a halt at the tip of Yuuri’s tongue as he realises that the person he’s talking to is perhaps the most beautiful being he has ever seen.

A soft fringe of silver hair falls over their ice blue eyes, sparkling behind a black domino. Their skin is ice blue — Nevan, Yuuri reminds himself — and they are arrayed in sparkling magenta and gold, done in what must be an archaic military uniform.

A uniform currently covered in the remnants of Yuuri’s drink.

Yuuri swallows. “I’m so sorry,” he says, gesturing to his glass. The Nevan laughs, shaking their head.

“I don’t mind; I’ve been looking for an excuse to ruin this,” they say, before bowing. “Your outfit is excellent, by the way. But did no one tell you it was a costume ball, not a strip club?”

Yuuri’s face colours as red as the lining of his outfit’s little skirt. “I’m going to murder Phichit.”


	2. dream about that casual touch

The Armistice Ball is a roaring success, which naturally means Viktor, Crown Prince of Neva and scion of the House of Nikiforov, wants to leave.

He supposes that’s a bit cliché, like something out of one of Gosha’s favourite Terran holofilms. A privileged little prince, hating the fact that he has it better than most of the beings in the galaxy. He should at least smile, and wave, and make nice with the people he needs to be nice to. But even that feels like it’s too much.

Compliments slide off him like water as he wends his way through the crowd. People know him even through the mask on his face; they bow to him and say all sorts of pleasant nothings. The weather, how good he looks tonight, would he be interested in spending time with them later?

“I have a pleasure ship docked at the spaceport, if Your Highness would like to see it,” an Alpha Allegrian purrs at him, looking up through her long, inky lashes. He can smell the musk of her scent: aggression, passion. He’s sure she’s quite lovely when she isn’t publicly broadcasting her availability to the entire planet.

He makes his excuses, but he’s barely taken two steps away when he finds his path blocked by the Kerri delegation. The leader of the bunch sizes him up and down, their iridescent eyes shining enigmatically. Despite that, Viktor can sense much of the same feelings rolling off of them as from the Allegrian.

Sure enough, the Kerri in question then tilts their head, their antennae bobbing and pulsing in excitement. “Truly, it is an honour to meet you tonight, Prince Viktor,” they drawl, in a voice that reminds Viktor of a paper bag crumbling. “I’ve heard so much about you. Is it true that you could —”

Viktor’s tempted to turn off his translator. He didn’t really need to know what they are saying about him on Kerr. But instead he smiles, shaking his head. “I have never heard of anything like that,” he replies, before sending a long-suffering look towards Yakov, the Royal Advisor. Yakov nods towards another cluster of foreign guests, so Viktor takes a breath and makes his excuses to the Kerri delegation.

“We are the Mandalans from the Neva-Mandala Exchange Programme,” says the first person when Viktor draws closer. “And we are gratified that Your Highness has chosen to greet us personally.”

Viktor smiles. The Mandalans bow, their hands carefully folded behind their backs. He copies them as well as he can.

“And I am gratified to receive your delegation this evening,” he replies. “May the Emperor rule for many more centuries.”

“May the Emperor rule,” agrees the first Mandalan. The others mutter stuff much to the same extent.

“What are your names?” Viktor asks, curiously testing the emotional waters around them. As expected, all he runs up against is a blank, contrasting with the high-strung hysterical adoration or slippery political posturing from so many other guests.

“Anzwei Kuhn,” says the first Mandalan. “And these are my colleagues, Cale Serfe and Seung-gil Lee.”

Viktor hums. “How are you enjoying Neva, then?”

“It has been satisfactory,” replies Anzwei. “The hospitality accorded to us at the University of Moyka is acceptable.”

Viktor isn’t sure if that’s a translation error, or if the Mandalans really intended to be such harsh graders of Nevan hospitality. The fact that he can’t discern their true emotions on the situation makes everything much harder.

Nevertheless, he smiles, gesturing towards the rest of the ball. “Well, enjoy yourselves. If you have questions, please don’t hesitate to ask me.”

At his next respite, he goes to seek out Yura. The younger prince is in avid conversation with a Beta Allegrian with dark hair and a surly expression; he glowers at Viktor as he draws closer. “You stink of neediness,” Yura bites out.

“You should greet more people than just old friends,” Viktor says, looking sidelong at the Beta Allegrian. “Otabek, right?”

“Yes,” says Yura. “He’s just told me about his new mediatorship.”

“Really? Congratulations.” Viktor nods at Otabek. “To whom?”

Yura’s expression grows pinched. “Leroy has _mated_ ,” he growls, with about as much disdain as if he’d just stepped in a glob of Eterian slime.

“Oh, congratulations to them, too.” Viktor has no idea who Leroy is, but they’re probably an Allegrian, and Yuri probably hates their guts. He decides not to press the issue further, clapping the younger prince on the shoulder. “Anyway, I think I’m going to step out for a bit, so if you want to take over all of my duties, I’ll owe you —”

“Ugh, who’s caught your eye tonight?” mutters Yura.

“I — that’s a gross exaggeration. I don’t always —” Viktor sighs. If he can’t even defend his reputation from family, how can he hope to do it with strangers? “You know I don’t, you know, go _all the way_.”

“But you do get pretty close,” Yura points out. “Everyone’s seen you making out in the tabloids.”

“Kissing never hurt anyone.” Viktor waves a hand. Could anyone really blame him for wanting to experience someone else’s emotions for a little while? To have the same intense point of unity without the sticky legalese of a permanent bond? No one could become the strongest empath in the galaxy — and the most talented one in Nevan history — without the accompanying hole inside them where their own feelings should be.

“Whatever, you gross pervert. Just say someone’s caught your eye and _go_ , already,” hisses Yura. Viktor squeezes his shoulder, then, with a little bracing twinge, before skipping off into the crowd.

He’s just making his way past the fountain when he collides with someone, splashing blue wine down the front of his uniform. The person splutters, embarrassment flashing bright across his cheeks. Viktor’s heart does a double take.

They’re the most beautiful Terran he’s ever seen. A shock of dark hair over skin that glows warm like firelight, eyes that sparkle like topaz. For a moment, the world around them seems to go deathly silent, all other emotions fading into static. The clarity sends a shiver down his spine.

He’d only ever read about these sorts of encounters before. Very few Nevans get to experience such perfect moments of clarity, but in the presence of another it takes on an intensely intimate meaning. Viktor can only distantly hear his own voice as he apologises to the Terran, who takes a step back, eyes widening. They say something about their drink, gesturing to their glass. Viktor tries to will his mind back to Neva to catch what they’re saying.

“I’m so sorry,” the Terran says. Viktor is suddenly rocked by a bolt of their intense curiosity and attraction.

“I don’t mind,” he says. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to ruin this.” He bows to the Terran, smiling at the pink flush in their cheeks. He knew their blood was red, but to see it manifested so is honestly _fascinating_. “Your outfit is excellent, by the way. But did no one tell you it was a costume ball, not a strip club?”

The Terran bypasses pink and lands right on red, their hands coming up to cover the daring mesh panels on their flamboyantly-cut Nevan suit. “I’m going to murder Phichit,” they mumble. Viktor has no idea who Phichit is, but he suspects they’re going to need to explain why they’d decided to dress their friend in Nevan bondage gear pretty soon.

“It’s really no matter,” he says. The Terran’s outfit may be a shade too scandalous for a royal ball, but he’s already seen worse ensembles out there. “As strip club outfits go, it’s positively classy.”

“I knew I should have covered up,” says the Terran, shaking their head. “I’m so sorry if I’ve offended your gaze or something. I’ll just —”

“No.” The word blurts out of Viktor before he realises it. “I mean — here.” He unclips his cape, a soft satin-and-fur affair that he only ever wears to formal events, and drapes it over the Terran’s shoulder. “Now you’re modest.”

“Thank you,” mumbles the Terran. “Remind me to murder my friend, too.”

“I’ll be sure to,” replies Viktor. “In the meantime, could I tempt you with a dance?”

He suspects that all the available cameras in the room are now trained on this moment, as the Terran nods and takes his hand. They head out into the other whirling couples, moving in time to the music. The cape flows rather fetchingly behind the Terran as they step together.

“You know Nevan dances?” asks Viktor, quirking an eyebrow.

“I pick things up,” says the Terran. “My childhood dance instructor was well-travelled.”

Viktor beams. He’s wearing gloves to avoid scandalous touches, but even through the fabric he can sense some of the Terran’s emotions. Besides, they’re broadcasting most of it in their expressions — trepidation, nerves, with an undercurrent of excitement.

And some confusion. They don’t have any idea who Viktor is.

Viktor wants to know more. “I don’t recall seeing you on the guest list,” he says. “Someone as attractive as yourself would be memorable.”

The Terran looks down, almost demure. “I’m not — I’m a companion,” they say. “My friend Phichit and I are companions for the crew of the _Firebird_?”

“Mila Babicheva!” Viktor had known Yuri was trying to lure her back home; he had no idea that it’d actually succeeded. “How is she?”

“She came here for a royal pardon. Would you happen to know Prince Yuri? Apparently he’s supposed to give it to her.”

“That’s irresponsible of him,” remarks Viktor. “He can’t just give out royal pardons to anyone.”

The Terran freezes. “Wait, does that mean —”

“I know Prince Viktor could,” continues Viktor. “I think he could be persuaded, if you know what I mean.”

There’s a pause, and then the Terran’s brows knit adorably. “I’m… I’m not sure,” they manage. “I’ve heard things about Prince Viktor.”

Viktor almost preens. _Almost_. “What have you heard?”

“He’s rejected all of his Candidates,” parrots the Terran, almost like they’re quoting a Starboard post about how problematic the Crown Prince of Neva is. “But also he’s supposedly some irrepressible playboy.”

Viktor laughs. “Really.”

“Yeah, and he’s got a non-Nevan fetish on top of that.” A pause, and then the Terran pauses, flushes hard. “I’m sorry, that was out of line. I mean he… has a thing. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Interesting opinion about the Crown Prince you’ve got there,” Viktor remarks.

“I’m sorry!” pleads the Terran. “It’s my first time here, and Mila’s not exactly forthcoming about her past. All I know about the Crown Prince is trashy gossip from the interneb. Please don’t arrest me!”

Viktor shakes his head, putting on his best fake-serious expression “We don’t do arrests on Neva. We just kill the offenders.” It’s a terrible joke, but seeing the Terran squirm is a little too entertaining. Still, after a moment he can’t handle it anymore and bursts out laughing. “I’m sorry, that was — Nevans don’t like executions. Harming one Nevan mind affects all of the rest.”

“I’m sure they can make an exception,” replies the Terran grimly. Viktor chortles.

“Well, you weren’t that far off from the truth,” he begins, but then the song draws to an end. Viktor spies the door leading out onto the balcony and pulls the Terran there, his heart immeasurably light at how willing the Terran goes, curiosity oozing from their every pore. “Candidates are people the Royal Matchmaking Agency have deemed are suitable as bondmates for members of the Royal Family. Prince Viktor, however, has not been satisfied with any of the Candidates thus far.”

The Terran is silent about that for a moment, their hands skimming across the crystal railing of the balcony. The entire structure glimmers in the moons’ light; the planet’s rings hover just a couple degrees short of perpendicular to the horizon.

“Why would he think that?” the Terran asks after a moment, looking up at Viktor through their lashes. Viktor finds it suddenly hard to breathe.

“Well, when other beings such as yourself look so beautiful…” he trails off, swallowing. “I mean. I don’t know. Maybe he’s just really lonely.”

“Lonely?”

Viktor nods, slowly drawing off one glove. The Terran’s gaze rivet to his fingers, their eyes wide. “I’m guessing since he didn’t like any of the Candidates, maybe…”

His fingers are just bare centimeters from the sides of the Terran’s face. Everything grows hushed, as if the universe is holding its breath.

Viktor is barely aware of his own words. “Maybe the one who makes his universe quiet, the one who he’s destined to be with is not from Neva at all.” For once he’s certain that what he’s feeling isn’t just the curiosity and attraction that rolls off the Terran in waves. It’s his own emotions, slowly bubbling to the tips of his fingers now breaths from the Terran’s skin.

The Terran tilts their head, unconsciously presenting their lips. Viktor knows that’s how they kiss, and in this bright, burning moment he wants to indulge the Terran in that custom, and perhaps plea for them to stay longer —

And then there’s the sound of an explosion, and without thinking Viktor rushes to cover the Terran with his own body as the shards of the shattered crystal ballroom come flying at them.


	3. but the room is too quiet

Yuuri’s ears are ringing.

His head is spinning, his heart is racing. The Nevan has protected him from the worst of the shrapnel, but that means now they’re sporting several grisly cuts from where the crystal has cut them. Yuuri’s heart sinks. “Oh my god,” he blusters, unpinning the cape that the Nevan had given him and putting it back around their shoulders. “How bad — are you in pain? You’re bleeding. I can — Let me —”

Their fingers brush. The Nevan startles, bright blue spots appearing in their high cheekbones. They jerk their hand away, wiping away an angry cobalt cut on their cheek, but Yuuri, too, is already reeling from the burst of emotion he’d just felt from the handsome Nevan now ripping off their mask.

Prince Viktor of the House of Nikiforov slowly clambers to his feet in front of Yuuri, shrugging off the cloak from his shoulders. “Is there anything in my back?” he asks casually. Mutely, Yuuri rises up to check, and shakes his head. Viktor nods, taking off his gloves and cracking his knuckles.

“Are — what are you doing?” asks Yuuri. “You’re bleeding, Your Highness.”

“Just Viktor’s fine,” the prince says immediately. “People are panicking and hurt inside. I need to help them.”

Suddenly, Yuuri finds himself drowning in an overwhelming wave of calm. He can feel his limbs go slack, his heartrate slowing. The wave soothes him, even as Viktor walks back towards the fragmented ballroom. _Shh. Check yourself for injuries. You’re going to be all right._

It’s wrong. It’s so terribly wrong. Yuuri’s brain screams in protest at the wave, but it continues to bear down on him, cloying and sweet. _Stay there. Don’t move_.

“Shut up!” Yuuri hisses. How many times has he told that to himself already, even without outside help from devastatingly handsome Nevan empath princes? “I’m not doing that. You can’t make me.”

The retreating figure freezes briefly. The calm tries to redouble, but this time Yuuri anticipates it, tensing himself and rising back to his feet. “Terran, it might be dangerous,” the prince pleads, though his back remains turned. “Stay out here; it’s safer.”

“My friend’s in there,” snaps Yuuri. “I’m coming with you.” He pauses. “And my name is Yuuri Katsuki, _Your Highness_.”

Viktor chuckles. “The legendary Terran stubbornness,” he says. “I can see why your kind are popular companions.”

“Yeah? Wonder why.” Yuuri rolls up the sleeves of the outfit, swings the cape around his shoulders. “Do you have a commlink?”

“The security and medical teams should be on their way already,” Viktor says, as they head back into the ballroom. Swathes of it are covered in rubble and shards of glass. Guests are huddled together away from the piles of rubble, some of them visibly injured. Others lie motionless; Yuuri’s heart sinks at the sight of them.

“Yuuri!” Phichit’s voice shouts. Yuuri turns, relief flooding through him as he sees that Mila, Sara, and Christophe are also relatively unscathed. With them is a dark-haired person arrayed in Mandalan scholar robes; they seem to be sporting a gash on their cheek which Phichit is dabbing gingerly at.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Yuuri mutters. Next to him, Viktor blinks, as if he’s hearing either a censor or a mistranslation. Yuuri runs over, wishing he’d at least tried to hide a medikit somewhere on this ridiculous stripper suit of a ball outfit. But just as he kneels down besides the Mandalan, another wave of calm rolls through him.

Other partygoers are silently getting up and following the guards out of the nearest exits. Yuuri closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

“Come on, everyone,” Mila says, shakily rising to her feet. “We need to follow the guards evacuating everyone.”

“Seung-gil’s hurt,” Phichit snaps, pointing out the vibrant bloodstains on the Mandalan’s robes.

“Leave it for the medical team,” says Sara, also clambering up to take Mila’s hand. Yuuri shakes his head.

“There’s gotta be something we can do to help in the meantime,” he insists. “Phichit, do you have a medikit?”

Phichit shakes his head. “We couldn’t bring in hypos or scissors.”

“Right.” Yuuri swings off the cape. “How badly is he bleeding?”

“Neither of you are medical professionals,” Seung-gil bites out, sinking further down to the ground as Christophe also stands. “It is more logical to leave me to be attended by the medibots when they arrive.”

“They’re being too slow,” snaps Phichit, but the anger in his brow smoothens at another wave of calm emanating from where Viktor is standing in the room, trying to control the situation. “Anyway, we’re companions,” he insists as he tears off the hem of Seung-gil’s robe and dips it in a glass of water, reaching out to dab at his wounds again, “we have basic medical training.”

“We need to go,” insists Mila, as a guard comes up to them. Yuuri’s gut freezes at the memory of something Viktor had said earlier.

“Mila — Prince Yuri can’t actually grant the pardon.”

Mila’s expression hardens. “I suspected,” she says, jerking a nod towards the center of the ballroom. “Meet us at the craft in a standard hour or you’ll have to find your own transport to the spaceport.”

Phichit flashes her a thumbs-up. “Are you going, Chris?”

“I…” Christophe looks down at Seung-gil, his expression pained. “Take him with us? Minami can fix him up in sickbay when we return.”

“He’s supposed to be with his delegation,” Sara points out.

“His delegation are unconscious,” Phichit retorts. “Chris, come on —”

Christophe wavers, as Sara and Mila head out with a set of guards. By now the rest of the people who can move have left, and all that remains are the guards sifting through the rubble for other survivors.

“Let’s bind his wounds if we can,” begins Yuuri, but before Phichit can respond, an automated voice cuts in.

“ _We’ll take it from here_.” They look up into the mechanical visage of a medibot hovering by a floating gurney. Two Nevan medics, suited in stark white with thick rubber gloves, hoist Seung-gil onto it.

“He’s a Mandalan, he’s got two separate circulatory systems!” Phichit shouts after the medics as they vanish out of the exit. Outside on the balcony, the sound of rescue hovercrafts can be heard. Viktor appears at their elbow.

“I think you’ve done what you can,” he says. Yuuri numbly hands him back his cape.

“I’m sorry it’s all bloody,” he says, for lack of a better thing to say. Viktor laughs, shrugs a little.

“You really should get out,” he says. A small burst of calm, of compulsion. Yuuri plants himself, despite knowing that’s a patently stupid idea.

“You still need help. Don’t you have people you want to make sure are safe?” He dimly registers Phichit and Christophe shooting him odd looks as they rush to safety on the balcony, dimly notes that some of the unmoving people are being covered by the medics and medibots on their way out. But he stands anyway, because he’s a Terran and Terrans are stubbornly attached to things until the bitter end. “Prince Yuri, for example?”

Viktor’s expression turns slightly ashen. “He’s fine,” he says.

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. Viktor shakes his head.

“I haven’t seen him yet,” he admits.

“He could be under the rubble,” Yuuri points out. “People have survived stuff like that before.”

“ _Terrans_ have survived ‘stuff like that’,” corrects Viktor. “Your homeworld is plagued with fire-spewing mountains, ground-shaking earthquakes, storms of all kinds, deadly beasts of all stripes — your kind is _built_ for survival. Nevans are… less hardy.”

“Mila’s been through plenty of tough situations.”

“Mila’s a former Candidate. And she’s also been exploring the galaxy for years now,” Viktor points out. “Yura hasn’t spent more than a standard week off of this planet.”

Yuuri has so many questions. But he knows it’s not the time nor the place to ask, so instead he turns towards the guards who are moving through the rubble, looking for survivors.

“We should at least patch you up?” he suggests, but Viktor shakes his head, wiping away the cobalt bloodstains with the corner of his cape. Blue stains — and not from the drink Yuuri had spilled earlier — are blooming all over his back. Yuuri moves to try and examine them closer, but Viktor flinches away.

The hovercrafts leave with the evacuees. The news crafts circle the palace ahead, occasionally blocking out the moons. Yuuri looks up, squinting at their spotlights, wishing he didn’t feel such a sinking feeling in his gut as he watches the guards continue to dig.

They dig and they move, unearthing bodies and scraps of metal from the device. But despite their efforts, Prince Yuri is nowhere to be found.


	4. i love the world (but not how it makes me feel)

Yuuri is quiet most of the way back to the spaceport.

They’d missed their crew’s hovercraft, so Viktor decides to take them in his own transport. The sleek royal vehicle cuts through traffic like a dream, gliding past screens of advertisements and news coverage about the Armistice Ball.

“ _Tonja Jepson, a specialist in interplanetary alliance law with the University of Kerr, says that there has historically been tension from parts of the Mandalan Empire regarding certain portions of the Armistice_ …”

Viktor tunes out the broadcast, clutching the fragments of metal in the bag. He’ll give them to the guards to turn in to law enforcement later, but in the meantime he wants to figure out what he can from the metal. Sometimes, if he concentrates just right, he’s able to garner the emotions of the last person who had held the object.

It’s not really helpful investigatively, but it makes him feel like he’s doing _something_ , and that’s important, too.

Anger. Panic. Confusion. It could be from a victim, it could be from the perpetrator. Viktor examines the carvings on some of the scraps, tries to discern their make, their style. It’s nothing he’s ever seen before, but then he’s never made it a point in his career as Crown Prince to see a lot of bomb sites and pieces.

The hovercraft reaches the launchpoint to the spaceport, where clusters of sleek hotels and budget pods lurk at the periphery of the launchpoint buildings. Most hovercraft must deposit their passengers here so they can embark on shuttles that will take them out to the spaceport, but the royal crafts can withstand the pressures of escape velocity just fine. They only have to get in line behind the commercial shuttles, one of which Yuuri’s crew may be on now, if they haven’t stayed behind for the Mandalan.

Would they have? They were separated back in the ballroom. But the other Terran — probably the future murder victim Phichit — had seemed insistent on staying with him. Even the Alpha Allegrian, Christophe, managed to resist Viktor’s emotional prodding for a bit out of some Terran-inspired stubborn loyalty.

Stubborn loyalty. Viktor looks over at Yuuri, who has emerged from the craft’s onboard refresher. They’re dressed in more modest garments now: a simple blue tunic and slate grey leggings, and Viktor would be lying if he said he didn’t stop to appreciate the way the gauzy material clings to the Terran’s form. Now that they’re away from danger, the urge to touch the Terran resurfaces again.

“I’m sorry,” he manages after a moment. “I wanted you to be safe.”

Yuuri closes their eyes. Viktor tries to feel the atmosphere around them, but doesn’t get much more than stubborn static. It seems that once they’d realised the true extent of Viktor’s powers, they’d thrown up defenses almost as impenetrable as a Mandalan’s. Viktor’s honestly impressed.

“I didn’t know a Terran could be so good at resisting… you know.”

“Is that how you do it?” asks Yuuri suddenly.

“Do what?”

Yuuri’s about to answer, but then a warning chime comes on, telling them to buckle in for liftoff. The harnesses comes down, and Viktor braces himself for escape velocity.

It’s only when they’ve cleared Neva’s atmosphere when Yuuri speaks up again, looking a little more green than pink. “Convince people to… fraternise with you.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “You think I emotionally… make them do it?” he asks.

“You _are_ able to compel people,” Yuuri points out drily. “How do I know you weren’t doing that back out on the balcony?”

Viktor knows that by all means he should be deeply offended at such an accusation, and yet… nothing. The frustration that rolls through the static, though, he soaks in that a little. “I don’t usually project,” he says after a moment. “I’m a lot better at simply absorbing and redirecting. Emotions that run through me I simply rechannel into better ones. Anger into joy, sadness into warmth, things like that. Projection requires you to be able to regularly generate feelings _to_ project, and I haven’t felt anything _completely_ by myself for a _long_ time.”

Yuuri’s gaze falls to their hands, fiddling with the hem of their tunic. “I don’t know if I trust that, no offense,” they say after a moment.

“None taken,” says Viktor. “Again, I’ve never seen a Terran be able to resist the projection so easily.”

Yuuri chuckles darkly. “You’d be surprised. If I could do it, a lot of Terrans could do it.”

“Not necessarily,” Viktor points out. “It takes mental fortitude.”

“I have dealt with enough monsters in my own head,” replies Yuuri. “I don’t need you poking around in there, too.”

“But would you want me _on_ your mind?” Viktor teases, winking because he clearly has no sense of self preservation. That causes Yuuri’s defences to slip a little as he beams over some embarrassment at him. On his behalf.

“I’d like the record to state that my translator said ‘on your brain’,” Yuuri says, smirking. “Not quite the same.”

“No, I’d imagine not.” Viktor shakes his head. “Translators are so terrible sometimes.”

“But they’re so necessary,” Yuuri says, sighing. “I wish I had the patience to properly learn every language out there, but it’d take me centuries just to master all the Terran ones alone.”

“Does Terra not have a standard tongue?” wonders Viktor.

“Terran Standard,” says Yuuri, though their expression twists a little. “Controversial renaming, though; it used to be something called ‘English’, which took over the entire globe through wars of conquest and economic domination. Basic Terran history, blah blah.”

“And you’re speaking that to me, right now?” Viktor knows that’s how it fundamentally works, but it’s interesting to hear it confirmed anyway. Yuuri nods.

“And you’re speaking Nevan, I know. I’d like to hear it for itself, though, sometime.”

“You could turn your translator off for a moment,” Viktor says. Yuuri considers it, before nodding and tapping at the side of their head. A flesh-coloured earpiece falls off.

“Go ahead,” they say. Viktor swallows.

“Are you sure?” he asks. Yuuri nods.

“I don’t know what you’re saying right now.”

Viktor takes a breath. “Okay.” He smiles, looking down at the translator in Yuuri’s hands. “The moment I first saw you, the world became still. So quiet. Like we were made to exist in one another’s space. You drowned everything out, and nothing else mattered. Even now, I am strangely at peace, and I finally have the quiet I need to be able to figure out my own heart.”

Yuuri’s eyes are wide, their mouth slightly agape. Viktor turns towards them, earnestness seeping through him in a tide he cannot control. It snaps out of him; Yuuri flinches; Viktor shakes his head.

“I’m so sorry about that,” he pleads, pressing his hands together in what he hopes is a good approximation of apology. Yuuri nods. “I didn’t mean to, I just — you make me _feel_ something, you know, and I’ve never really experienced this before, not at this level. I just wish I knew how to find it in me to tell you in a way you understand, instead of just talking and hoping you don’t.”

A moment passes, quiet, strangely tender. Yuuri’s cheeks are pink; his fingers tremble a little as they reach up and puts their translator back in. “Am I allowed to know what you said?” they ask.

Viktor smiles. “I just told you a story about my pet, Makkachin. Have you ever met a berg?”

“Berg?” echoes Yuuri.

“They look kind of like… what’s the word… dogs, from Terra. Makkachin is very fluffy and brown.” Viktor presses a hand to the armrest, pulls up a picture of the berg. His fluffy brown fur shines even in the holo projection.

Yuuri gasps. “He looks like a poodle!”

“Is that a kind of dog?” asks Viktor. Yuuri nods.

“Yeah, I used to have a small version. I named her Venus, but we all called her Vicchan. She died of old age a while back.” They pause for a moment. “I couldn’t make it back to Earth in time to see her off. I’ve been running from there ever since.”

“Bergs are long-lived,” says Viktor. “Makkachin has been with me since I was very young. He helped me with my training, actually.”

Yuuri’s expression falls again. “Right.” They look down at their fingers, flexes them against the armrest of the chair. Viktor feels their defenses rising back up again, and mourns at the loss.

“You know exactly how a projection feels like now,” he says after a moment. “Did you feel anything like that when we were on the balcony?”

Yuuri purses their lips. “No,” they admit.

“There you have it.” Viktor sighs. “I wish I could say I never use it for frivolous things, but I certainly don’t use it for my… connections. It taints the exchange.”

“The exchange,” echoes Yuuri.

“I don’t usually feel much of anything myself,” replies Viktor. A chime on the screen announces the arrival of the spaceport in less than five minutes. “I know I should, but I just — it’s easier to mimic the feelings of the people around me and pretend those are mine, too.”

“Is that why you end up with all sorts of non-Nevan beings?” asks Yuuri, tilting their head and looking at him curiously. Their topaz eyes shine with that same curiosity from earlier. “You want to ride their emotions for a bit?”

“Basically,” agrees Viktor. “It does do terrible things for my public image, though.” He laughs drily, remembering the latest tabloid gossip surrounding him and an intensely flamboyant Gilletese. “But I’d rather they think that instead of, you know. The idea that there’s a black hole where my heart should be, or something.”

“I doubt that,” Yuuri says immediately. Viktor raises an eyebrow.

“Doubt what?”

“That your heart is a black hole,” replies Yuuri. “You’re honestly quite Terran, I think.”

Viktor realises then, with a start, that Yuuri had moved a little closer during that, their gaze darting to Viktor’s chest with undeniable curiosity. Viktor reaches out, placing Yuuri’s hand lightly over where his heart currently flutters wildly.

“You don’t need —” Yuuri begins, and then bows their head, flushing. Viktor raises an eyebrow, before slipping off a glove and pressing his fingers lightly to the back of Yuuri’s hand.

Almost immediately, Yuuri swoons.


	5. lasso the moon and the stars

When Yuuri comes back to consciousness, he can hear the familiar hum of the _Firebird_ all around him. The comforting glow of his quarters greets him as he opens his eyes, and his clock informs him it’s 0600 standard hours.

“NICA, where am I?” he asks the room.

 _Good morning, Yuuri_ , replies the ship’s computer. _You are currently onboard the_ Firebird.

Yuuri rolls his eyes. He could’ve figured that out by himself, but the computer has always had a habit of being painfully obvious, as if she was convinced no one on the ship knew how to read.

Still, NICA’s tendency to state the obvious is a little comforting, especially when it comes to reorienting himself from whatever the hell had happened last night. Part of him is convinced he’d dreamt all of it up; how could he have danced with a Nevan prince and then weathered a terrorist attack in the same night? It doesn’t seem physically possible.

And yet there’s another body in the bed next to him, which happens rarely enough that Yuuri is more than just a little alarmed. Viktor’s hands are gloved, but he has one arm draped across Yuuri’s midsection just under the duvet, and his face is pressed into the pillow next to Yuuri’s. He almost looks as if he _belongs_ there; Yuuri’s heart skips a beat.

 _We are still in orbit around the planet Neva_ , NICA chirps at that moment, startling Yuuri from his examination of his surprise bedfellow. _Would you like to see the news from the surface_?

“Sure,” Yuuri says. Moments later, holo footage of the Armistice Ball attack projects out in front of him. Next to him, Viktor stirs a little, and then burrows deeper into the pillow with a loud, undignified snort. Yuuri chokes down a giggle.

“NICA, could you play the security footage from my room?”

The computer hums; moments later the video feed comes up. Yuuri rewinds it back to the previous night, to the spot around 2300 when Viktor first shows up, princess-carrying Yuuri into his room while apparently speaking with someone over his shoulder.

The onscreen Viktor carries him to the bed, sets him down. He moves to leave, but freezes at the door, turning back to the bed. Slowly he returns, taking a seat on the bed next to Yuuri to let him wrap himself around his midsection.

He remains like this for the rest of the night, until at some point he slumps into sleep, and drapes an arm around Yuuri as well. Yuuri supposes that he must have said something, or felt something that Viktor had picked up just before he left, something strong enough to compel him back. The thought that he could do such a thing undeniably thrills him.

Viktor’s arm moves. Yuuri looks down, smiling as the Nevan rolls to the side, rubbing blearily at his eyes. “What time is it?” the prince mumbles.

“0600 standard hours,” replies Yuuri, closing the footage with a flick of his wrist. “The ship’s clock is a bit different from Neva’s.”

“Right, yes.” Viktor yawns, looking up at the ceiling. “Did you… did you sleep better?”

“Better?” echoes Yuuri. “Honestly, I don’t remember most of last night after the bit in the craft. What happened after you touched my hand?”

Viktor bites his lip. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have… I came on a bit strong with that touch, and it overwhelmed you.”

“Oh.” Yuuri gathers his knees up to his chest.

“I told you, my heart’s like a black hole.” Viktor laughs a little self-deprecatingly at that, but Yuuri shakes his head.

“That’s not — I probably just wasn’t prepared and got taken by surprise. I’m fine now, right?”

“You were feeling something like a night terror when I tried to leave.” Viktor’s expression is downcast. “Perhaps your mind was trying to process what had happened earlier in the night.”

Yuuri sighs. “Perhaps.” It could’ve been a number of things, though — his time on the _Firebird_ hasn’t always been easy sailing. They’d once been captured by a fleet of Orsons and held prisoner until Christophe somehow managed to sweettalk a guard into helping them escape. They’d had to deal with ship malfunctions during jobs, dangerous stowaways trying to steal vital power cores, harrowing chases through dangerous quadrants of the galaxy. There’s no end to the possible subjects for his nightmares, but Viktor doesn’t need to know that.

“Do you… do you remember it?” asks Viktor. “The attack, or whatever you might have dreamt of? Would you like to… share it?”

Yuuri watches his hands tug the tips of his gloves, almost hopefully. His breath hitches with want, with longing, but he swallows it back and shakes his head.

“I don’t remember much of the dream,” he admits. “And the attack, well.” He’s probably still a bit in shock, and it’ll take more time for him to reconcile that with himself being relatively unscathed. He’s still in the soft Nevan tunic and leggings from last night; with a sigh he swings out of bed and crosses to his wardrobe for something more human. “I thought you’d go back to Neva after dropping me off?”

“I’m staying,” says Viktor. Yuuri freezes, his hands halfway to an old faded _Endless Nights_ t-shirt.

“Staying?” he echoes.

Viktor nods. “Prince Yuri is missing. I have to find him.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “Not going to leave it to the experts?” he asks drily.

“I’m coming along with the experts, aren’t I?” Viktor smiles. “On behalf of the House of Nikiforov, I would like to retain the services of the _Firebird_ and her crew for the location and safe return of my brother, Prince Yuri.” He pauses. “I’ve already asked your captain, and she agreed. I will also be providing her a royal pardon for her services.”

Yuuri nods, trying to rein in the excitement that blazes in him at the prospect. Viktor’s changed out of his clothes from last night into a charcoal grey t-shirt; he looks the farthest thing from a prince physically, but there’s still that overwhelming presence around him. That knee-weakening charm, that disarming smile, those _eyes_ —

“You got patched up?” he asks, for lack of a better thing to ask.

“Yes, your ship’s medic was helpful.” Viktor smiles. “He seems young for an Omega Allegrian, though? He doesn’t seem to have presented yet.”

“Minami’s kind of a prodigy,” Yuuri replies, taking his clothes and pulling up a screen to change behind. He can sense Viktor still staring avidly at him, though, and feels his face flushing in spite of himself. “He actually went to Earth to study xenoepidemiology, and has already almost gotten himself killed five times finding cures to weird diseases we’ve stumbled onto during our travels.”

“Maybe time with Terrans makes other beings more susceptible to getting in trouble,” jokes Viktor.

“Well, you’ve only known me for a couple hours and here you are, tagging along on our next mission,” replies Yuuri as he closes the screen and steps back to the bed, sitting back down to face Viktor. “Most people just hire us and wait back home.”

“Maybe I’m part Terran,” teases Viktor. Yuuri raises an eyebrow.

“Are you?”

The prince shakes his head, laughing. “No, my pedigree is flawless. But I admit, I wouldn’t mind having a little Terran in me.”

Yuuri’s almost ashamed that he could feel arousal bloom inside him at that, as the line was patently terrible. “I can’t believe pick-up lines are universal,” he mutters, before leaning in to press his lips to Viktor’s.

Again, at the contact an overwhelming surge of _something_ threatens to drown him right where he sits. But he holds on this time, pressing stubbornly against the tide of everything Viktor seems to be sifting through right now. The emotions of everyone in the crew, the grief of the attack victims back on Neva, the burning fire that seems to course through Yuuri himself —

— and then the world grows strangely quiet. _I’m so sorry_ , something that sounds like Viktor’s voice echoes in his head. _I keep being too much_.

Yuuri had heard Nevans communicate telepathically through lip-to-lip contact. It shocks him just as much as it turns him on.

 _This isn’t how you kiss, right_? he wonders. Viktor’s amusement ripples through him. _No, I guess not_.

 _Would you like to know_? asks Viktor, taking off his gloves. Yuuri casts out what he hopes feels like an agreement. Viktor’s laughter echoes again. _You’re a quick learner_.

Yuuri pulls back, smiling even as his heart races a parsec in his chest. “How do Nevans kiss?” he breathes.

“Like this,” replies Viktor, and presses his forehead and fingertips to Yuuri’s.


	6. down the tunnels that no one knows

For Nevans, the act of the forehead and fingertip touch is deeply intimate, a show of trust and affection. _Here is my mind meeting yours_ , it says. _Here are my defenses, all laid bare at your feet. I am vulnerable at your touch, my mind open to yours and yours to mine._

Kissing Yuuri is more than he could have ever imagined.

He feels a weightlessness he’d never felt before, a sense of perfect clarity and rightness as the Terran’s fingertips press into his own. Yuuri breathes into their space, his lashes fluttering in wonder, and Viktor is blown away at the sheer wealth of information that Yuuri’s mind grants him at this touch. The underlying buzz of fear and anxiety, the strength, the stubbornness, the love — everything a contradiction and yet all of it impossibly amalgamated into the wonderful being kissing him now.

It’s everything Viktor has ever wanted to feel, and he never wants to stop feeling it, ever again.

“Are you okay?” Yuuri asks as they pull apart. “You seem… winded.”

“It’s a good winded,” Viktor says quickly. Not entirely — just this one kiss feels like the first bite into forbidden fruit. Now that he’s had a taste, he doesn’t want to return to normal, to a life without Yuuri in it.

Which may happen, as his time is running out. He cannot ascend the throne unbonded; Gosha has already had to hand down his place in the succession because he’s been unable to bond with any of the Candidates. The prospect of returning to Neva after this, and making a Candidate his bonded consort just to ascend the throne doesn’t appeal to him at all anymore.

(Gosha, as someone who had _thrown_ himself into the study of ruling the planet, had wanted the throne more than him. He would be better suited, if it weren’t for his relatively terrible empath skills.)

Viktor tears himself out from his thoughts when he feels Yuuri’s fingers against the back of his hand. Unthinking, he turns his hand over, baring his palms. Yuuri smiles, trailing designs across Viktor’s skin.

“We should get up,” Yuuri says after a moment. His room is starting to brighten, anyway; Viktor suspects the hue of the light is meant to mimic Terran daylight. “NICA, what are we doing today?”

_There is a meeting at 0800 standard hours_ , she replies. _Captain Babicheva would like to discuss the job given to the crew by Prince Viktor of the House of Nikiforov_. A pause. _The Prince is in your quarters with you_.

“Yeah, I got that,” Yuuri says, laughing. “What are the specifics of the job?”

_The location and safe return of Prince Yuri of the House of Nikiforov_ , replies NICA. _Prince Yuri is an adopted high-empath Nevan formerly of the noble House of Plisetsky, a cadet branch of the House of Nikiforov. His powers were discovered at the age of 5, and from thereon he was adopted into the main line and is currently second in the line of succession._

“That’s not public record,” Viktor remarks, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t know ship computers had access to royal documents.”

“NICA’s sort of one of my pet projects,” Yuuri admits, his cheeks flushing pink. “Mila actually put some of the Nevan stuff into her when I was coding for her information retrieval system. She said it was ‘just in case’, so…”

_Captain Babicheva has eluded Nevan Searchers for three Standard years after fleeing the planet in an attempt to escape an intended bonding to Prince Alexei_ , NICA chips in cheerily. _Prince Alexei is currently unbonded, but has an official companion, a Terran named Kat Parson_ —

“NICA, you could’ve told me that before we went to Neva in the first place,” Yuuri points out.

_Captain Babicheva set the security on that information to a ‘need to know’ basis. I have deduced that you need to know._

“Thanks.” Yuuri sighs. “NICA, can you order me a coffee?”

Viktor follows him, fascinated, as they head through the halls of the ship towards the galley. The _Firebird_ is an older model of a standard Nevan long-distance starship, able to accommodate a crew of fifty with escape pods to spare, though clearly the current crew is much smaller than that. Based on some of the patches and quirks in the panelling and the Terran-coded ship’s computer, though, it’s clear that the _Firebird_ has gotten some modifications during her time with this crew.

“I also put NICA on my own ship,” Yuuri adds as they pass the doors marked ‘hangar’. “In fact that’s where I do most of the tinkering; better she messes up the _Vicchan_ instead of the _Firebird_ , you know?”

“You named your ship after your dog?” asks Viktor, eyes wide.

“Well, her real name is the _Victory_ ,” replies Yuuri, shrugging. “I got her when we escaped an Orson raider fleet, so it felt fitting.”

Viktor gapes. Until now, he’s never heard of anyone who’s escaped an Orson raider fleet and lived to tell the tale. “How did _that_ happen?”

“You should ask Phichit for the story, he’s got musical numbers,” replies Yuuri, as they step into the galley and he heads straight for the replicator. “Thank god for still being in orbit — I sometimes forget what real coffee tastes like when we’re out in space for ages.”

“Are you just trying to turn me off going out to space with you?” teases Viktor. “Because it’s not happening.”

_Welcome, Prince Viktor of the House of Nikiforov_ , the ship’s computer suddenly says. Viktor blinks at the replicator panel, now displaying a variety of menu options. _We have a variety of standard Nevan cuisine to order from portside for your comfort and enjoyment_.

“It’s spaceport food,” says Yuuri, already halfway through his coffee. “Nothing fancy.”

Viktor purses his lips and looks at the menu. “What if I want to try something else?” he asks.

“There’s some meals from most Federation planets,” replies Yuuri. “I’ve been trying to perfect my mother’s katsudon recipe, but it’s strangely hard to code for breaded pork cutlets.”

“Ooh! I’d like to try that,” says Viktor. The replicator makes a whirring noise.

“Ah, I feel like I should apologise in advance.” Yuuri laughs. “Maybe if you ever find yourself on Earth sometime you should find my mother and get the original recipe. Nothing else will ever compare.”

Half an hour later, Viktor realises that if he ever does do that, he might expire on the spot from good food, because the replicator katsudon is one of the most delicious things he’s had in his entire life.

“Wow, this is amazing!” he exclaims. “Who made it?”

“The replicator,” says Yuuri. “Though, technically it was NICA controlling it. Again, it’s not really authentic, since she has to break down our existing food stock to create the raw ingredients, so sometimes she runs out of, like, the pork toner or the egg, or… I’m sorry. Bad time to discuss it.”

“Well, I don’t have a point of comparison, so it tastes good to me,” replies Viktor matter-of-factly. He looks up at one of the lights. “NICA, it was delicious!”

_Thank you, Prince Viktor_ , replies NICA. _I’m deeply touched_.

After eating, Yuuri leads him into the wardroom where the meeting is apparently scheduled to take place. Mila is there, along with three Allegrians and the dark-skinned Terran Viktor vaguely recognises as Phichit. Dr Minami, the youngest of the Allegrians, waves at Viktor as they come in.

“Feeling better?” he asks. Viktor smiles and rotates his wrist upwards thrice. The Allegrian gesture works; Dr Minami smiles and repeats it.  

“Thank you for joining us today, Your Highness,” Mila says as the door closes behind Yuuri. “Phichit has intercepted transmissions from Nevan Law Enforcement about the origins of the metal you turned in last night.”

The anger. The panic. The confusion. Viktor’s stomach turns as the reports are projected for everyone to see. “The Mandalan Empire,” he breathes.

“No way,” says Phichit.

The projection fades. Everyone looks over at the Terran, who has a hand clenched firmly against the table. “It says it’s Mandalan in origin,” one of the Allegrians points out.

“Most of the Mandalan delegation were severely injured,” Phichit points out. “They’re in no position to be kidnapping anyone.”

“Maybe they set off the explosion and someone else took advantage of the situation?” asks Yuuri. Phichit sends him a betrayed expression.

“Seung-gil is a student, not a terrorist,” he hisses.

“Maybe not him, but one of his colleagues —”

“Which one of us spent the evening talking to them?” demands Phichit. “Chris, you can back me up. They support Prime Minister Park and the Emperor’s peace policies. They would never.”

The Allegrian named Chris bites his lip. “They were supportive of the Federation treaty,” he agrees after a moment. “But —”

“Okay, maybe it’s just my little human gut instinct, but I _know_ they’re innocent,” snaps Phichit. “Wrong place at the wrong time. Someone stole a Mandalan bomb and set it off —”

“It was a Mandalan power core,” corrects Mila. “They’re sensitive to changes in oxygen levels, and Neva’s atmosphere is definitely different from the inside of a ship. There’s a Mandalan ship out there with no or very little energy; those things are extremely pricey because they’re so efficient otherwise.”

“That only supports my theory!” Phichit exclaims, throwing up his hands. “Why would the Mandalans sabotage their own ship? I bet you someone did it to make it look like the Mandalans want to breach the treaty.”

Viktor takes the security footage of the blast, magnifying it until it fills most of the space. “Has whoever done this sent any demands?” he asks.

“Not that the Nevan Police know of,” replies Mila. “While they search planetside, we’ll check the logs at the spaceport. Chances are, whoever did this would want to get out of Nevan territory as soon as possible, especially if they’re also responsible for the explosion.”

“I think I know who did it,” says Chris suddenly, holding up his commlink. Viktor only catches a glimpse of a conversation hovering above the commlink before Chris dismisses it. “Seung-gil texted me, says he just got discharged from the hospital but can’t find his ship anywhere.”

A pause. “You think… no way.” Phichit shakes his head.

Chris nods. “Whoever stole Seung-gil’s ship probably has the Prince, too.”


	7. i wanna cry (i wanna fall in love)

The meeting ends with Mila and Christophe arranging for Seung-gil to be transported onboard the Firebird. Sara relays a request for ship logs from the spaceport, while Phichit keeps an eye on transmissions from Nevan law enforcement.

Yuuri feels a bit like an extraneous appendage as the other crew members spring into action. He tries tagging along with Phichit, but as soon as Christophe finishes the arrangements, he and Phichit delve into the transmissions together. “Maybe take our guest around the ship?” Christophe offers as a strange sort of olive branch. Yuuri sighs, but acquiesces readily.

“I’m excited!” Viktor exclaims as Yuuri leads him down the corridors of the ship. “How many people are in the crew?”

 _There are twenty-four beings onboard_ , answers NICA before Yuuri can respond, _twenty-three of them are regular crewmembers onboard the Firebird. Would you like the ship’s roster?_

“NICA, no,” says Yuuri, shaking his head. “Yeah, there’s 23 crew members, though I think Mila officially added Christophe’s kotchka to the roster after she got her shots.”

“Ooh, you have a kotchka?” Viktor raises an eyebrow. “Yura will want to meet her.”

“He likes kotchki?” asks Yuuri.

“Yeah, he has three back in Moyka,” replies Viktor, shrugging. Yuuri pulls up a map from NICA, trying to calculate the best route for a tour.

 _Might I suggest showing him the observation deck?_ asks NICA innocently. Yuuri sighs.

“Want to see the observation deck?” he asks. Viktor claps his hands.

“It would be an honour,” he says. Yuuri feels his cheeks heating up as he starts to head towards the starship’s aft.

The observation deck is less of a deck and more of a small room with a large viewing panel and several comfortable chairs. It serves primarily as a breakroom for the ship’s engineers as well as a popular date location for the ship’s couples on designated weekends. Sure enough, as they enter the room, the ship’s head engineer snaps to attention.

“Your Highness!” he exclaims, bowing deeply. Viktor bows back.

“This is Emil Nekola,” Yuuri says. “He does most of the mechanical repairs.”

“Except the crazy genius ones,” says Emil, shaking his head. “I just listen to the Terrans when they start spouting their ideas. I recommend you do that, too, Your Highness.”

Viktor chuckles. “They can be stubborn otherwise,” he agrees. “What brings you away from Neva? I know why Captain Babicheva is here, but…”

“She picked me up from a spaceport cantina in the Outer Quadrant,” says Emil, shrugging. “Protip: Never accept a ride from a Weyr.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “Emil, have you given Mila the list of supplies we’re going to need? We’re heading out at 0800 tomorrow.”

“Already ahead of you,” says Emil. “My crew’s all planetside; apparently there’s some sort of new nightclub in Moyka that’s opening tonight. I hope they make it back in time.”

Yuuri laughs. “You’re not going to go make sure they behave?”

Emil shrugs. “Maybe I should. You’d know better than most how Nevan liqueur can get with non-Nevan biologies.”

Yuuri winces, but Viktor’s interest seems to have sparked based on the way he leans in closer. “Tell me more,” declares the prince. Emil’s grin gets positively shit-eating.

“Well, there was this one time a couple standard months ago when I’d come back from my leave with a flask of Moykavino —”

“Triple distilled, right?” asks Viktor. Emil nods.

“Yes. The kind that gets you absolutely _polluted_ after three shots,” he says. “But you know, the grade of intoxicant is apparently very close to lethal levels on Terra, which of course means Terrans are always challenging one another to try some, right? Anyway, Yuuri decides, because he’s really quite the daredevil if you push his buttons, to do that —”

“Oh god.” Yuuri sits down in one of the seats, turning towards the observation pane. “Call me when you’re done recounting my embarrassment.”

“It was _not_ an embarrassment!” exclaims Emil, reaching out and ruffling a heavy gloved hand through Yuuri’s hair. “It’s impressive a Terran can even drink one shot of triple-distilled Moykavino, let alone _six_!”

“Six!” exclaims Viktor, his eyes wide. “Wow, Yuuri, how are you not a galactic legend yet?”

“Phichit keeps trying to make that happen,” Yuuri mutters. “He has musical numbers about this incident, too. His favourite part is the a capella portion that’s all me having to be tied down in the sickbay for a week afterwards while Dr Minami detoxed me.”

Viktor’s laughter makes the mortification almost worth it. Almost. “Travelling with Terrans sounds like something exciting,” he remarks. “I know there are Nevan companions with the ICU, but everyone wants Terrans instead because they’re so hardy and…”

“Mad scientist?” Emil’s smile is fond. “And they’re even more intense when they’ve already bonded with each other like Yuuri and Phichit are — no, not like a Nevan one,” he adds, as Viktor seems to have gone very still at that, “it’s… an official camaraderie, I guess.”

“Licensed friend-bond,” Yuuri mutters. “We’re a package deal: you hire one of us, you hire the other. Otherwise there are legal repercussions.”

“Ah, similar to the Beta Allegrian companions who take their mating pairs with them,” Viktor says, nodding. “I’ve looked it all up.” He comes to take a seat next to Yuuri, looking out at the stars. “You wouldn’t believe how close I keep coming to filling out the companion applications every year.”

“But you’d have to surrender your place in line,” Emil says. Viktor nods.

“It caused instability for a couple years when Gosha was forced to do so after being rejected by all of the Candidates,” he says. “I’ve had better luck; a lot of them want the bond with me, but… I couldn’t reciprocate.”

Yuuri can hear Emil slowly backing out of the room. He sighs. “I’m sorry, this is probably a stupid question, but since Mila rarely talks about Neva and the interneb doesn’t have any reliable information about the Royal Family — how exactly does someone become a Candidate?”

“They’re all high-empath Nevans who were discovered past childhood,” answers Viktor. “The institution of the Royal Family wants only the most powerful empaths to be rulers, so they adopt the precocious ones and raise them as potential heirs, and they compel the late bloomers to bond into the family.” His tone is a little dry, a little brittle. “If someone in the direct line of succession is unable to secure a bond with a Candidate by their 30th birthday, they must give up their place in the succession.”

“And Mila was one of those Candidates before she fled,” says Yuuri.

“It’s an act of treason,” agrees Viktor. “Only the monarch and the heir apparent are allowed to grant royal pardons to forgive those who flee their duty to Neva, but not every border guard knows that.” He laughs a little drily at that, before looking over at Yuuri. “Neva doesn’t make that sort of information easily searchable on the interneb, and the Searchers never confirm anything to the outside press.”

“I can imagine the uproar,” says Yuuri. “Or maybe not imagine — Phichit says there’s an interneb conspiracy about a government watchlist of high-empath Nevans, but I didn’t realise it was more than that. No one really does, actually.”

“It’s not right, but it’s also not something I can control, even as the Crown Prince.” Viktor sighs, looking out at the stars, at the ringed mauve sphere that his homeworld is from up here. “The Searchers are an institution now, and the industry surrounding them is so _big_. I don’t know where I’d start dismantling it, if they don’t immediately execute me for trying.”

From up here, Yuuri also feels small. Just a speck of human dust floating in the vast dark vacuum of space, insignificant in the grand scheme of the galaxy. But there’s some comfort in insignificance sometimes — it means not every decision is life or death, not every choice will affect the structure of the universe. Viktor, on the other hand, looks down on the planet like a weary guardian, larger than life, able to determine the fate of everyone on this ship and everyone else on the planet.

But then Viktor looks at him, and Yuuri realises that no, the prince is small, too. Bowed over already by his responsibilities, chained to this planet out of duty. A puppet dancing on the end of the string, a child afraid of the dark spaces between the stars. His fingers find Viktor’s, seek the now-familiar comfort that they seem to bring. Viktor kisses their foreheads together, his breath exhaling softly between them.

“Thank you, Yuuri,” the prince says after a moment. “For all you’ve given me so far.”

“I haven’t given you anything,” Yuuri says, confused.

“You gave me a taste of the universe,” replies Viktor. “A sample of the life I could have led, at the eleventh hour of my freedom.”

Yuuri pulls back, brows furrowing. “What do you mean —”

“When this is over, I must return to Neva and be bonded,” replies Viktor. “It’s what I must do, in order to start changing the culture around Searchers.”

Yuuri swallows. “What would you do?” he asks, somehow speaking around the lump in his throat.

“I’d no longer make it treason to refuse,” replies Viktor. “It’s an opportunity, if someone wishes to take it. And many — especially those who who are poor — will take it for the chance at stability, at prestige, at privilege. But for others, it’s little more than abduction and captivity in a gilded cage.”

It’s a promise. It’s a good start. And yet the price feels too high for Yuuri somehow. The idea that he’ll have to say goodbye forever to this extraordinary prince from the stars wrenches at his heart in a way that he still doesn’t understand. Viktor looks at him, evidently sensing the pain; Yuuri turns away, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat.

“You’re very… honorable,” he chokes out.

A pause. “That is high praise from a Terran,” Viktor whispers, one hand reaching out for his cheek. Yuuri leans into it readily, savouring the contact, the little peek into the supernova of Viktor’s emotions.

Maybe this is what heartbreak feels like — knowing that the dutiful path is not the same as the right one, and knowing he must choose it anyway.


	8. you make a fool of death with your beauty

Viktor remembers the year he first became eligible to be bonded. He still had long hair back then, still had a face clouded by childhood chubbiness. Being paraded in front of the Candidates, many of which were older than him by several years, felt less like he had been sent to inspect them and more like he himself was being inspected.

At the time, all he had wanted to do was get back to his meditation exercises. As a natural-born heir of the Nikiforov line, he had taken it upon himself to become the best in emotion control and manipulation throughout the galaxy. So he rushed through each Candidate, rejecting all of them at the end, clearly in a hurry to return to his books.

Every evaluation after that had much of the same bent. Some would close, maybe even catch his eye for a couple minutes or so. But ultimately he’d walk away empty-handed, and then the Candidates return to their own wing in the palace grounds, to await the next member of the royal house who may seek a bondmate for whatever reason.

Viktor remembers the year the cracks in the system had clearly shown through. He’d grown older then, cut off his childish locks in a wild bid to appear more mature. The Candidates stepped out as usual in their perfect line, waiting for him to stride among their ranks, testing their bonding abilities from afar.

He’d noticed that some of them were new faces. One in particular had been very new, and very young.

“Who are you?” he asked the young Candidate, who could not have been much older than fourteen. “Are you old enough to be here?”

“Natalya Romanova, Your Highness,” they said quietly, their cheeks burning bright blue. “I’m — I’m eighteen.”

“Really.” Viktor raised an eyebrow.

“Her papers say she is eighteen, Your Highness,” intoned Lilia, the Royal Matchmaker. “She is from the shipyards near Panin.”

Viktor’s eyes narrowed. “I doubt that,” he said. “She’s young enough to be adopted.”

“Her papers say she is of age,” replied Lilia tersely.

“She can’t be here,” Viktor said, and hoped that that would end the conversation.

Natalya was nowhere to be seen on his subsequent visits, but he did not see her with the other wards, either. Besides, Viktor had been preoccupied with overseeing Yuri’s ascendance to the direct line of succession, and thus hadn’t thought much on it.

But then he found out Natalya’s fate at the next banquet. She’d been caught trying to flee, having been abducted into her candidacy and desperate to be reunited with her family instead of entering into a bond with an older member of the Royal line. Her mother came to the palace gates during the banquet, screaming about how all they had received in compensation for their daughter’s sacrifice was her little blue scarf.

Now, as he gazes down at Neva from the observation panel, he thinks about the little blue scarf tied to the palace gates until he himself had untied it, bringing it back to his rooms as a reminder of what should be changed.

 _Yuuri, you have a request to report to the bridge_ , NICA announces suddenly. Next to him, Yuuri clears his throat, rising to his feet.

“You can come with me if you want,” he says. Viktor nods, rising to his feet and following him out the door.

The walk to the bridge is largely quiet, punctuated only by the hum of the ship and the faint snippets of music echoing from workrooms all along the way. Viktor catches snippets of Nevan crooners, Kerri trills, Terran melodies of all sorts. The pleasant cacophony reverberates inside him long after they reach the bridge.

“Seung-gil’s here,” Phichit says without preamble as Yuuri nods at the Mandalan observing the screen. “We’ll be departing in the morning, but in the meantime we’ll be trying to trace his ship’s signature and discerning its flight plan from the spaceport logs.”

“Whoever stole his ship isn’t going to follow the original flight plan,” Yuuri says.

“It would be logical,” agrees Seung-gil, turning back from the screen. “The criminal took the effort to try and make the attack appear to have Mandalan roots, exploiting the current political discontent back in our capital planet, Miraia.”

“I don’t know why any intelligent being would be discontented with peace,” grumbles Phichit. Seung-gil’s lips quirk up by an infinitesimal degree, which on other creatures would probably be a scream of agreement.

“The Imperial Fleet have been displeased with the terms of the peace treaty since its inception,” the Mandalan explains. “They believe that it favours the Federation too heavily, that it prevents the Mandalan Empire from even being able to explore the galaxy under the assumption that we will conquer all that we discover.”

“Yeah, but you’d think the Emperor’s dedication to peace would appease the Federation,” Phichit complains.

“The Emperor’s words are nice, but the actions of the Imperial Fleet are still what many still think about when they think about the Mandalan Empire,” Christophe rejoins. “Countless civilisations still haven’t gotten their reparations yet; where’s the Emperor’s words on that?”

Seung-gil’s eyes flash, his hackles obviously rising as he opens his mouth to retort something, but Phichit pushes in between the two of them, one hand on each chest. “Really, guys? Can we talk about politics later? Right now we’ve got a prince-napper on the loose who just murdered a bunch of people on Neva at the Armistice Ball last night —”

“A big political statement,” Christophe points out, but Phichit’s hand moves up to place a finger against his mouth.

“And they passed it off as the work of Mandalans, which is _already_ doing so much fucking damage to the Empire’s careful rebuilding of its public image on the interneb.” Phichit looks over at Seung-gil. “What are the odds that the perp stole one of the power cores from _your_ ship to blow up the ballroom?”

“Inconclusive,” replies Seung-gil, looking down at Phichit’s hand on his chest. “And please —”

“Sorry.” Phichit removes his hands from both of them. “Well, if they did use one of your power cores, they can’t get very far. How many do you have in your ship?”

“Two,” replies Seung-gil. “Mandalan cores are very efficient.”

“We know that,” Christophe bites out. “I’ve crunched the numbers for a ship running on only one Mandalan power core. Only about two or three jumps. Not enough to get out of the Nevan system.”

“The ship is pre-programmed to have ready access to the jump coordinates between Neva and Miraia,” Seung-gil chips in helpfully. “It is one of the benefits of being in the exchange programme.”

“We said there’s a chance the perp might deviate from the flight plan,” Phichit points out.

Viktor watches Yuuri take in the conversation, his expression thoughtful as he considers each angle of the argument. After a moment, he clears his throat, and the three of them turn to him. “Phichit, remember when we had to hijack and return a stolen ship from that one Mandalan trader?”

“Yeah, you were cursing at the ship’s nav the entire time,” Phichit says, before making an ‘ah’ of realisation. “You don’t think the perp knows how to pilot a Mandalan ship?”

“The trader told us that all Mandalan nav systems are set to the Miraian Interplanetary Positioning System instead of the Federation Standard, meaning it’s impossible for someone who hasn’t studied it before to pilot the thing. So unless the perp is Mandalan or has studied the MIPS, they’re probably just going to let the ship’s nav do its job. They might deviate from the flight plan, but they’re not going to deviate from the jumps if they decide to jump.”

“They’ve definitely jumped at least once,” Christophe adds. “The Nevan Police have scoured the immediate area just before the jump point.”

There’s the sudden sound of an incoming communication. “That’s an Allegrian signature,” Sara says.

“I recognise it,” Christophe agrees. “It’s Leroy, or someone in his mediatorship.”

“NICA, identify incoming comm,” instructs Mila.

 _Otabek Altin, Beta of the Leroy Mediatorship_ , announces NICA. Mila nods, and moments later Otabek’s face fills the screen, looking fairly bruised and cut up from the attack but none the worse for wear.

“ _Captain Babicheva, I was informed you are searching for Yura_?” asks Otabek.

“Altin, what a sight for sore eyes,” says Mila, smiling. “Do you have information for us?”

“ _I saw the person who took him_ ,” replies Otabek. “ _She was Nevan_.”

Silence fills the bridge at that. After a moment Mila thanks Otabek, closes the communication with a shaky little nod. Viktor’s stomach drops somewhere to his feet as the eyes of everyone on the bridge turn to him and Mila.

Yuuri steps closer to him. “Do you know who it could be?” he asks gently.

Numbly, Viktor shakes his head. “I think… she was angry,” he says, remembering the twisted metal in his hands. “Panicked. Desperate.”

Mila’s expression grows wan. “An escaped Candidate?” she wonders, sinking down into the captain’s chair. Next to her, Sara takes her hand, squeezing it tightly.

“Then she couldn’t have gotten far,” says Christophe. “And she couldn’t have been able to use the nav system. Mila, let’s call in the crew and go find her.”

Mila nods shakily. “Send the notification,” she agrees. “We’re leaving at 2300 standard hours.”


	9. everything that matters is made of glass

Yuuri is quiet for most of the night, lost again in the depths of his brilliant mind. As they eat their dinner, Viktor looks over at him, feels the static separating them, and _wants_.

“We’re going to get them,” he says. “The Candidate and my brother.”

“I know.” Yuuri looks down at his carefully replicated noodle bowl and stirs it thoughtfully. “I’m just wondering what could’ve driven that Candidate to… to blow up a ballroom and kidnap a prince. Even Terrans wouldn’t use such violence to avoid getting married.” He pauses. “Well, most of them. I don’t know what Nevans do.”

“Harming one Nevan mind harms the community,” Viktor intones, repeating the first lesson he’d ever learnt about emotional manipulation. “Executions take place in psi-dampened rooms, to minimise damage to the rest of society.” He grimaces. “But sometimes I wonder why we even do them at all, if we claim to be a sensitive, advanced society.”

“She might have been facing that,” says Yuuri thoughtfully. “There’s a saying on Earth: violence begets violence. It’s misused in a lot of contexts but…” He shrugs, adjusts his glasses almost nervously. “Someone facing death has nothing left to lose.”

Viktor nods. “That’s a very Terran way of putting it,” he remarks.

“It _is_ how we ended up as the apex predator in every climate on Earth,” Yuuri points out. “Better to die free than to live captive. Go out in a blaze of glory, all of that.”

“But the Mandalan angle to this… blaze of glory?”

Yuuri shrugs. “Cover your tracks.”

Viktor exhales. Natalya’s blue scarf flutters on the palace gates. He remembers running his fingers through it for the first time, being overwhelmed by the emotions woven into the thread. Fear, sadness, panic, anger — the emotions of a young Candidate who doesn’t want to be there.

After dinner, Viktor follows Yuuri back to his quarters. “If you’re not comfortable with me being here, I could move my belongings to the guest quarters,” he offers. Yuuri shakes his head.

“It was just a surprise this morning,” he says. “Would you like the refresher first?”

Viktor takes the offer, as well as the fresh pair of pyjamas someone has laid out for him. They’re a rich plum colour — one of his favourites. Based on the warm hum of the refresher chamber and how quickly the water heats to his favourite temperature, he suspects the ship’s computer has something to do with it.

“Are you always this nice to your guests, NICA?” he asks, as he pushes his wet hair out of his eyes. The computer hums.

_I only wish for Prince Viktor to feel as welcome as possible onboard the Firebird_ , she says. _Is my hospitality satisfactory?_

“NICA, sometimes my own servants forget to serve me,” Viktor says, amused. “I mean, it was their first day and having an official function on the first day of the job can get overwhelming, but…”

_They were foolish_ , NICA declares. Viktor laughs. _Your laughter is aurally pleasing_.

Viktor feels his cheeks warm. “You don’t think it’s too much? For Yuuri?”

_He finds you attractive_ , replies NICA. _I have captured on my security feeds twenty-six instances of him gazing at you when you are not watching him within the past hour. In addition, his basal temperature and heart rate are currently elevated moreso than usual. My hypothesis is that he is aroused, but also nervous_.

Warmth courses through Viktor at the idea that Yuuri could be aroused at the thought of him. “And what about me?” he asks.

There’s a long, contemplative pause. _No comment_ , NICA declares. Viktor laughs.

Sure enough, Yuuri startles when Viktor finally emerges from the refresher. His cheeks immediately flush pink as his gaze travels down to the hem of Viktor’s shirt riding up against his hips. Viktor feels heat course through him, feels his own heart race heavily in his chest. Slowly, Yuuri rises from the bed, walking over to him.

“The first time I saw Chris in his mating phase, I was terrified. We had to strap him down in his room, and poor Dr Minami had to inoculate himself with pheroblockers because, you know. He has a big target painted on him otherwise.”

Viktor swallows, as Yuuri’s fingers hover breaths from the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. “Nevans do a basic scenting as part of the bond,” he breathes. “Not as extensively or as ritualised as Allegrians, but —”

“Terrans don’t do it at all,” Yuuri replies. “At least, not obviously. We all know pheromones play a role, but…” He takes Viktor’s wrist, presses his nose to the pulse point and inhaling. “I think I understand Chris a little more right now,” he breathes against Viktor’s skin, and Viktor’s trousers heat a little in response. “You smell so…”

Viktor kisses him, pressing Yuuri’s hand to his cheek. He feels the ardour burning in Yuuri, answering the aching inside of himself. He pulls Yuuri flush against him, lets Yuuri capture his lips with his own.

_How do Nevans bond_? Yuuri wonders. Viktor pulls back, examining his earnest expression, and then presses their lips together again.

_Orgasm during barrier-free sex,_ he replies.

Yuuri’s breath hitches. Viktor shivers, as Yuuri’s hand travels down the small of his back, resting just above his hips. His mouth instinctively opens to admit Yuuri, deepening the contact. _How close are we to that_? Yuuri asks.

Briefly Viktor thinks of what it’d be like to lie with Yuuri, to share the deepest parts of him with this extraordinary Terran. He knows how the process works; he knows Nevan prophylactics are the best out there simply to facilitate intercourse without bonding. But in spite of his reputation, he’d never actually had sex with any of the other beings he’s kissed.

Sex without strings doesn’t appeal to him, and even less so with Yuuri. He wants to give all of himself, and receive all of Yuuri in return.

He wants the bond.

But he can’t.

Yuuri’s hands freeze, having felt the change in Viktor’s emotions through the touch. Slowly he pulls back, stroking a hand along the side of Viktor’s face. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have tempted you.”

“No,” Viktor chokes out. “I want it. I want you so much that it scares me.”

The calm he feels when Yuuri is near him, the perfect balm his touch is to Viktor’s fevered mind, the strength he can draw from into the recesses of his black hole of a heart — Yuuri is everything he has ever needed, the answer to a question he’s been asking without realising it.

He feels the bed hit his shins, feels himself being pressed down onto the mattress. Yuuri’s eyes are closed, but his mind is unbelievably open, desire and affection tangible with each touch against Viktor’s fevered skin. He hikes the shirt up Viktor’s chest; Viktor fumbles a little to help him get it off, kissing him again when it’s off. Their fingers entwine and clasp as Yuuri presses him back down, breathing into their space.

“I can almost feel what it feels like when I touch you,” he gasps. “My mind is being fucked in so many ways right now.”

Viktor’s cheeks heat at the Terran curse that rolls so sexily from Yuuri’s lips. It’d remained untranslated, as everyone in the galaxy at this point knows what it means and all the additional usages, and watching the way Yuuri says sends shivers down his spine. “Is that… is that a good thing?” he ventures.

“It’s unbelievable,” declares Yuuri.

Viktor suspects that means it’s more than good. Yuuri captures his lips again, his hands moving to pin Viktor’s above his head. Helplessly, Viktor follows, letting Yuuri suck little blue bruises along his neck, across his collar. His hips buck forward, the heat now unbearable. Yuuri straddles him, his eyes growing wide when he brushes up against Viktor.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes. Viktor moans, almost mindless with need.

_How are you capable of saying anything_? he demands the next time Yuuri’s lips press against his. All he gets in response is laughter, and then another ‘fuck’ when Viktor bucks up against him again.

He can feel release approaching already. Yuuri pins his wrists with one hand; the other travels down across his chest, along his sternum. His hips rock against Viktor’s, breath coming short as he, too, pursues the friction and heat — and all the infuriating clothes — between them.

Viktor’s going to spend in his trousers like an adolescent, and he doesn’t even care. Yuuri is too perfect above him, too tempting, too open. He could turn the tables, he could drive Yuuri out of his mind with pleasure, he could make every last drop of the galaxy’s fantasies about sex with Nevans come true. The power rolls deep within him, with only the flimsiest of customs and clothing in its way.

And then a sudden chime cuts through the moment, causing Yuuri to topple off of him with a different Terran curse. _Yuuri, your presence is requested on the bridge_ , NICA announces cheerily.

Yuuri groans. “Have we left already?” he demands.

_Affirmative. We are en route to the Nevan-Mandalan neutral zone._

“Why?” asks Yuuri, as Viktor sheepishly dons his shirt again.

_The location of the Mandalan vessel stolen from Seung-gil Lee is there._


	10. the lovers that went wrong

By the time Yuuri makes it back to the bridge, the _Firebird_ has already completed the jump sequences. _Jump complete_ , NICA announces as the screens slide back to admit him and Viktor. _We are currently at the Nevan-Mandalan Neutral Zone, as delineated by the Yagudin Asteroid Belt_.

“NICA, locate the _Almavivo_ ,” Mila commands.

On the viewing panel, a closeup photograph is taken of a passing asteroid, with a set of red crosshairs highlighting a small Mandalan shuttle.

“Chris, can you take us there?” asks Mila. Christophe looks at Phichit, who squeezes his arm and smiles. The Alpha Allegrian nods, pulling up the yoke of the ship.

“NICA, plot us a course to the _Almavivo_ ,” he says.

_Calculating safest course to the_ Almavivo, chirps NICA. Yuuri looks over at Viktor, who is leaning over Mila’s shoulder, his knuckles white against the black pleather.

Yuuri’s not someone who gets motion sickness easily, even out in space, but usually navigating asteroid belts make him nauseous. The ever-present danger of careening asteroids keeps the _Firebird_ wheeling and dipping to avoid them, with Christophe employing some rather tricky manoeuvres at times to yank them from the jaws of death.

“Careful,” Mila hisses, as an asteroid clips against the ship’s starboard shielding.

_You have an incoming transmission from the_ Almavivo, NICA suddenly announces.

“On audio,” says Mila. There’s a click, and the sound of panicked breathing can be heard.

“ _Don’t come closer_ ,” a feminine voice snaps. “ _This ship has photon cannons, and I will use them._ ”

“They are bluffing; they don’t have the access codes,” Seung-gil mutters, but Mila holds up a hand.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” she says, her voice deliberately calm. “We don’t want a fight. We’re just here for Prince Yuri.”

“ _Tell me who you are_ ,” the voice insists.

“I’m Captain Mila Babicheva of the _Firebird_ ,” says Mila. Christophe suddenly swerves around a rogue asteroid, sending Yuuri careening towards the scanners. He decides perhaps it’s better if he sits down, and promptly finds the nearest vacated seat and buckles in. “We were hired to locate and return Prince Yuri of the House of Nikiforov.”

“ _Who hired you_?”

Viktor steps forward. “It’s me, Viktor,” he says.

There’s a moment of silence, punctuated by the static. The breathing on the other end quickens.

“ _Don’t come any closer_ ,” the voice says.

“Anya,” insists Viktor. “I came as myself. Not as the government. I just want my brother back.”

“ _Romanova_?” hisses Mila, eyes wide. Viktor nods.

There’s the sound of a choked sob. “ _Do you know… do you know all the years I have lost_?” Anya Romanova demands over the line, her voice wavering. The asteroid bearing the _Almavivo_ draws ever-nearer, but there’s no attack from the ship docked on the surface.

Yuuri looks over at Viktor, who looks so much older than he has any right to be. “I’m sorry, Anya, but you did kill all of those people,” the prince says quietly. “They were innocent; why did they have to die?”

“ _My sister was innocent, too_.” Anya’s voice is hard. “ _The only crime she was guilty of was the crime of fleeing a bond with a man twice her age_.”

Viktor blinks. “But that doesn’t explain why you had to kill all of those people,” he points out. “Or were those at the party on Armistice Day also guilty of killing your sister?”

Yuuri notices that his hands are running through thin air, as if feeling the memory of some scrap of fabric through his hands. There’s a long silence full of static, and then —

The connection cuts out. _The Almavivo’s proton cannons are primed_ , NICA warns.

“Looks like she found your access codes,” Phichit tells Seung-gil, who folds his hands behind his back.

“She is clearly more proficient at flying Mandalan ships than we gave her credit for,” he reasons.

“Anya came from a family of starship mechanics,” Viktor says. “Her sister Natalya was also a Candidate, but she was found younger.” A shadow passes over his face at the name, and Yuuri has the urge to take his hand.

Slowly he unbuckles his seatbelt, crosses over to Viktor to stand beside him. Viktor leans into him; Yuuri briefly brushes his pinky to sense the worry bubbling deep below.

The first blast comes soon after. Christophe swerves, avoiding the bolt only for the ship to smash a smaller asteroid to pieces. _Hull plating has been damaged_ , NICA announces. _Shields at 70%_.

Another blast. “Isn’t she flying a Mandalan ship? Isn’t this a breach of the Treaty?” Phichit demands.

“Self-defense clause,” Christophe retorts, steering the ship away from yet another bolt. The next one glances just across their bow.

“She fired on _us_ ,” Mila growls. “It wouldn’t hold up in court.”

“We were pursuing her. It could,” Christophe replies.

“Try to get her back online,” Viktor hisses. “I need to talk to her.”

“I’m trying, Your Highness!” Sara complains. “She’s not responding!”

Just as they’re about to send another request for contact, the alarms start to sound.

Sara pales. “We’ve got contact!” she exclaims. “An entire fleet of Nevan starcruisers, weapons hot. They just jumped two clicks from the belt.”

_Candidate Anya Romanova_ , calls the captain of the commandship over the broadcast channel. _Surrender your ship and your hostage or we will be forced to take action_.

“The _Almavivo’s_ turning,” says Phichit. “Why’s she — oh.”

The sound of proton cannons fills the air even from this distance. Christophe swerves again, finally pulling in to a spot behind the ship, facing away from the cannons now firing out onto the Nevan fleet.

_Candidate Anya Romanova, your actions have declared you as hostile and we will use any means necessary_ —

“Stand down!” Viktor shouts. “Open a privileged channel onto that commandship and get them to _stand down_!”

“Already ahead of you,” says Sara. Moments later, the commander’s face fills the screen, his expression deeply displeased.

“Your Highness, are you saying we should take this treason unpunished?” demands the commander.

“Medvedev, any damage to her ship risks losing Prince Yura,” Viktor snaps.

“There’s no proof that he’s even onboard!”

“NICA, scan for lifeforms on the _Almavivo_ ,” Viktor instructs, not even taking his eyes off the screen. Yuuri feels a surge of heat coursing through his body at the regal poise the prince has right now, the imperious look in his eyes.

_With pleasure_ , announces NICA. _There are 2 sapient lifeforms onboard_.

Medvedev is bright cerulean. “That proves nothing!”

“It proves there’s still a chance,” retorts Viktor. “She’s got a hostage. Whether that’s Yura or not is entirely provable, but not necessarily the point. If she’s got a hostage, whoever it is is her bargaining chip to something she wants. We need someone to negotiate with her.”

“You can’t do that under the Treaty,” Christophe points out. “As long as there’s a fleet of Nevans willing to strike her down, any negotiation from you represents the Nevan government, and your current position would have you breaching the boundaries.”

“What about Seung-gil?” asks Phichit.

“He is not allowed to be here in his official capacity either,” replies Christophe. “You need someone from neither species.”

“Your father is the Allegrian Ambassador,” Seung-gil points out drily. “Wouldn’t that qualify you?”

“He prefers seduction to negotiation,” Phichit cuts in, smiling beatifically. “That leaves me and Yuuri with any experience in this area.”

“I’ll do it.”

The words shock Yuuri, too, just a little. But they’ve come out of his mouth, and for some reason he feels as if he’d just agreed to carry some priceless artefact across the galaxy to destroy it instead.

Mila’s expression is pinched. “It’s too dangerous,” she warns.

But Viktor is smiling, and the sheer amount of pride in his eyes makes this sudden decision worth it. “I’m Terran,” Yuuri says, looking probably a whole lot more cocky than he feels.

His eyes connect with Viktor’s, bright and burning, full of promise. He smiles back.

“If it’s not dangerous, what’s the point?”


	11. our visions misbehaving

Watching Yuuri suit up should not be nearly as bittersweet nor as arousing as it is, but Viktor feels that way anyway as he watches Yuuri array himself in a jumpsuit and oxygen pack for his visit to the _Almavivo._

“We’ll have a line of communication with you right here,” says Emil, tapping a small wire thread on the fabric of the jumpsuit. “The bridge will see and hear everything and transmit instructions through the translator earpiece.”

Yuuri nods. He clicks the button on his pack to activate it, raising his thumb towards Emil as the oxygen bubble expands around him. But just before he steps towards the airlock doors, Viktor runs towards him and enfolds him in his arms.

“Take care of yourself,” he pleads.

Yuuri smiles. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”

Viktor takes his hands, kisses his fingertips to Yuuri’s gloved ones. He presses his forehead to the surface of Yuuri’s bubble, wishing he could go farther. Yuuri meets him halfway; the surface of the bubble the only barrier between them.

“I’ll get Yuri back safely,” Yuuri says, before pulling back to look at Emil. “Be prepared to build a boarding seal if I’m successful.”

Emil salutes him, and the airlock doors open. Yuuri steps through, pressing his hand against the glass. Viktor mirrors him, feeling a lump of worry congealing in his chest. Whether it’s his, or the rest of the crew’s, he’s not quite sure. Perhaps it’s both.

Then the external doors open, and Yuuri steps out of the airlock and towards the _Almavivo_.

Viktor heads back to the bridge, where the crew is watching the feed from Yuuri’s glasses. An access hatch opens for him on the side of the ship, and he clambers onboard with little trouble, his breathing nervous but steady over the feed.

“You can do it,” Phichit mutters. “Come on, come on…”

“ _You’re the negotiator_?” a voice over the feed asks, clear even over the hissing static on the audio feed. Moments later a beautiful Nevan shows up on the screen, her eyes narrowed suspiciously as she presses the muzzle of her blaster against the temple of a scowling Prince Yuri. The blood in Viktor’s veins turn to ice. “ _Are you armed_?”

Yuuri must have raised his hands to show he was not. Anya considers it, before jerking her head back towards something. Yuuri follows, his camera feed revealing the cockpit of the ship. Everything seems bathed in an eerie green light.

“ _Thank you for having me_ ,” Yuuri offers as he nervously takes a seat in the chair. “ _I have an offer from Prince Viktor of the House of Nikiforov_.”

Anya and Yuri sit. Yuuri looks down, clearly noting that Yuri’s hands are bound.

“ _What is he offering me_?” Anya asks warily, crossing her legs. The feed bobs up to see her face, now more drawn and haggard by proximity.

“ _A pardon for the treason you committed in attempting to flee your Candidacy_ ,” replies Yuuri. “ _However you will still face criminal charges for the attack at the Armistice Ball_.”

“ _Criminal charges_ ,” scoffs Anya, digging the blaster harder into Yuri’s skin. “ _Sounds more like the instant I give you the Prince, that Fleet will blast me into millions of pieces_.”

“ _You know perfectly well they can’t do that without violating the terms of the Armistice itself_ ,” replies Yuuri. “ _But you have no more fuel, no supplies to last you beyond a week. This ship is meant to get people from point A to point B, not outlast a Fleet on a little asteroid at the edge of a no-man’s land. If you refuse, we might leave — but the Fleet won’t. They will get you eventually._ ”

Anya purses her lips. “ _You’re trying to intimidate me_.”

“ _I’m not here on behalf of the Fleet_ ,” replies Yuuri, shrugging. The feed shifts a little, as he adjusts his glasses. “ _I’m here on behalf of a brother who wants his brother back_.”

“ _And in exchange, will he give me my sister back_?” retorts Anya. “ _Psi-dampening walls cannot block out the deepest familial bonds. I_ felt _her, Terran. I_ felt _her mind crumbling into dust miles away in my room. And you expect me to let their prince go so that he can return to life as normal? Continue to capture poor talented Nevan children to further the royal bloodline?_ ”

“ _Prince Viktor feels as strongly about ending the Searching industry as you_ ,” Yuuri says. “ _Which is why he is willing to give you the pardon. You would have the chance to go home for a while and visit your family before the trial starts_.”

“ _There is no justice for Candidates who have been wronged as much as Natalya and I have_ ,” Anya grinds out, her eyes flashing. “ _I would sooner —_ ” she moves the blaster to point it at her own head, and Yuuri lurches forward.

“ _No_!”

Anya laughs. Viktor feels a bone-chilling uneasiness slide into his gut.

Yuuri catches himself, taking a deep breath. “ _Is there anything we can do to ensure the safe return of Prince Yuri_?” he asks quietly.

“ _Fuel_ ,” replies Anya. “ _Supplies. That royal pardon — I would like to return, someday. But for now, I will not_.”

Yuuri swallows. “ _They will hunt you down_.”

Anger, grief, frustration. Viktor’s not sure if it’s his own, or if it’s someone else — The entire crew? The Fleet? Anya herself? He times his breaths to the sound of Yuuri’s vitals, his heartbeat ticking like a metronome to Viktor’s own wild thoughts.

“ _One Mandalan power core replenishes itself in twenty-four standard hours_ ,” says Anya. “ _The Nevan Fleet has been switching over to Mandalan cores because of the Armistice, and their command ship definitely has extras_.” She pauses, smiles. “ _A power core, some supplies, and the pardon, and you can have your prince back. I won’t harm him_.”

There’s a crumpling sound. Viktor moves his hands back from the edge of the workstation to see that the metal has warped.

Yuuri is silent. _What do I do?_ he seems to be asking. _What do I say?_ Viktor looks on, seeing the fire burning in Anya’s eyes, and remembers the blue scarf blowing on the palace gates.

Calm. The universe holds its breath.

“Accept it,” Viktor says quietly, his voice choking in his throat. The feed tilts, as if confused. “She will answer for the attack another day. We will find her.”

“Will you?” Mila wonders. “The Searchers never found me.”

Phichit sighs. “She’s probably just trying to get the fuel to seek asylum in the Mandalan Empire, or on a distant Federation planet. You might be able to find her, but you might not be able to arrest her.”

“And she’d just get away.” Viktor sighs. “But this is the best option for getting Yura back. We have to take it.”

The feed moves, as if nodding. “ _All right_ ,” Yuuri says onscreen. “ _We’ll take the deal_.”

“ _Fuel and supplies and pardon first_ ,” Anya instructs.

“ _Okay_.” Yuuri extends a hand. Anya regards it distrustfully.

“ _No — what’s the Terran phrase — funny business?_ ”

“ _Absolutely not_ ,” replies Yuuri. “ _Emil, please make the seal_.”

There’s a rumbling deep within the _Firebird_ , as Emil extends a boarding seal between the entries of both ships. Viktor grabs a touchpad and scribbles out a note of pardon, affixes his signature and the royal seal.

“I’m sending this over to the _Almavivo_ ,” he instructs Sara, and flings the document over as soon as she opens the channel.

A small chime resounds on the ship, and then Anya smiles. “ _Thank you_ ,” she says.

“I’ll issue a command to Medvedev to send her the spare power core and supplies,” Viktor adds, feeling resignation settle in his bones. This should be a victory, but somehow there’s something hollow about it. He feels torn, somehow, between his desire to do good by his people… and his desire to do good by his people.

No matter the outcome, someone will be hurt by an unjust death. Who is he to consider the losses at the Armistice Ball ‘justified’ because of the evils of his own family?

No, that’s what Anya had thought. She had looked at them as collateral damage — had looked at the tense situation between the Federation and the Empire and decided it would serve as a perfect scapegoat for her own crimes.

“The fuel and supplies are onboard our ship,” Emil reports over the comm.

“Yuuri, we’re sending someone over with the supplies and fuel,” Mila instructs. “Make sure she hands off the Prince.”

The crates are carried on screen, into the cockpit. Anya sets down her blaster and removes the restraints around Prince Yuri’s hands and ankles. Yuuri grabs him, and the two of them start to move away with the other crewmembers —

“Wait,” says Christophe. “Yuuri, what’s that noise?”

“ _What noise_?” asks Yuuri, pausing in his tracks. “ _The hissing? That’s been there the entire time_.”

“Isn’t it static?” asks Viktor, frowning.

“No, the AV equipment is fine. I tested it recently.” Phichit frowns. “Wait, Chris, do you mean —”

Christophe is already way ahead of him. “Yuuri! Get out of there _now_!”

There’s the sound of an explosion. The bridge rocks under their feet. The visual feed cuts out, only to be replaced by the horrific sight of the _Almavivo_ exploding right in front of them.

_Shields at 2_ %, NICA reports, red lights pulsing gently. _Structural damage to the port side hull at 9’o clock. Depressurisation warning. Depressurisation warning. Depressurisa —_

Viktor closes his eyes, trying to search for that familiar silence through the ringing of the voices and feelings around him. _Yuuri? Yuuri_?

But Yuuri does not respond.


	12. my fire was fate with you

In her small northern hometown of Rodnina, Mila Babicheva was known as a magic-child. Endowed with the ability to project her emotions onto surrounding people, Mila had spent an entire childhood easily bending others to her will.

Rodnina was far away from the glittering capital, which heightened its desirability in her childish imagination. She’d dreamt of walking through golden-lit streets and crystal avenues, venturing out to the crack of the Great Waterfall to see how far down she’d have to drop to hit the bottom. When the Bitterfrost came, she would dream of flying on the frozen falls armed only with skates, catching snowflakes in her hair and lashes.

Her wish came true, to some extent, when the Searchers came.

In most major cities and towns, the Searchers are a ticket to prestige. They amount to a talent search agency, auditioning and testing Nevans of all ages for the chance to be selected as a Candidate. But in rural and developing areas, they have a more sinister reputation. Tales of young people who vanish in the night, magic-children simply ‘moving away’ without explanation. Sometimes a couple months pass and their families receive a handsome compensation, and a familiar name appears on the news in connection with a member of the Royal Family. Even out in the middle of nowhere, the House of Nikiforov carries weight.

Mila was discovered, her family informed she will be well-cared for. Having just passed her sixteenth birthday and thus at the right age to be trained as a Candidate instead of an adoptee, she watched as her mother signed the contract with trembling fingers. Her berg chased after her hovercraft as she was whisked away to Moyka hours after.

For the first time after that, Mila found herself surrounded by other magic-children, some of which weren’t even children anymore. Young adults, determined and cutthroat in their posturing for an advantageous bond, filled the corridors of the palace she was assigned to. No longer was she exceptional — here, her explosions of temper were considered coarse, unrefined. She had to be taught how to rein in her emotions, how to direct her projections. All for the possibility of being selected by someone of the Royal House for a bondmate.

On her eighteenth birthday, she caught the eye of Prince Alexei. He took her out of the compound — the first time she’d been in years since her arrival — for long dinners in cloud liners above the city, and longer walks along the Moyka River. For the first time since she arrived, Mila had a taste of the world at its highest echelons, had a glimpse into her future as a bondmate to a Royal Family member.

And then her life changed again when she met Sara Crispino at a gala dinner on a cloud liner gliding between the planet and its rings. She didn’t care about the topic of the evening, nor did she care for most of the guests. Sara’s violet eyes beckoned to her, deep and mysterious like a nebula; the jewels in her hair twinkled like constellations in the night sky.

“What brings you here?” she asked Sara as they watched the rings veer by, dust and ice particles glittering above the observation panes.

“My brother and I are executives of Crispino Industries,” replied Sara. “I’m also his familial mediator.”

Mila remembered Michele Crispino. He’d stared suspiciously at Alexei and so many others in the room all night, hovering at his sister’s elbow like a overbearing Gilletese defending its mates. Which, of course, would be a lot less creepy had they not been brother and sister.

“A handsome rich young Alpha like him can’t find his own mediatorship?” she asked lightly. Sara sighed.

“He is very… _attached_ to me,” she admitted.

Mila hummed into her glass of Moykavino. Alexei never let her have more than a finger, fearing the consequences of more. “Tell him to grow up,” she suggested.

She could see Sara hiding a smile behind her own glass as they drank to that.

One drink turned to more, turned to Sara dangling across her shoulder on the pressurised terrace, laughing and twirling her along to the music. “You know what I’ve always wanted to do?” wondered the Beta, nuzzling against Mila’s collar. Mila shivered at the point of contact, feeling the same swoops in her stomach that the Beta must be experiencing. “Be a companion. Go out to the stars, forging my own way. Finding my own mediatorship, in the arms of other beings.”

“You’re allowed to do that?” wondered Mila.

“Form mediatorships with other species? Absolutely. They just passed a law on Allegria… it was such a big victory for the Love Wins advocates…”

“Yeah but — go to the stars as a companion? I thought that was only something Terrans did.”

“Nevans and Allegrians can do it, too!” Sara’s eyes shone like a supernova, and Mila felt her own heart expand just as fast. “You just need the paperwork filed, you need to take some certification courses accredited by the ICU… and then you get contracted to a crew, destination anywhere in the galaxy.” She paused. “Mila, let’s do it together. Let’s ditch all these people… and just go to the stars. Together.”

And Mila couldn’t say no to that. Maybe it was the Moykavino, maybe it was Sara’s own intoxicating presence, the sweetness of her voice, the earnestness of her enthusiasm. Maybe it was the way the world felt both fuzzy and clear, like standing in the eye of a storm and trusting it wouldn’t hurt her.

She had no idea how it happened. One moment she was merely dancing with Sara, and the next their fingers and foreheads were meeting. The Beta’s presence seemed to surround her, the scent of her perfume overwhelming Mila’s heightened senses. She was floating, she was falling, drifting away to new heights and into the depths of some great intangible thing from which she never wished to resurface.

And then the guards were pulling her away, Alexei’s stricken expression hovering moon-like in the back of the clamouring crowd. Even after being torn from the party and forcibly escorted back to the compound, Mila could still feel the ghost of Sara’s fingers and mind against hers.

“I should be angry with you,” Alexei told her the next time they met. Over a table at the compound, the walls slate grey and drab. The table was metal, prison-like. Outside, the Bitterfrost winds blew. There would be no skating on the waterfall now.

Mila peered out at him from behind her curls. “Are you?”

He shook his head. “You’re the only one of this lot who has any real spark,” he replied. “You remind me of a Terran I encountered once.”

Mila tilted her head. “A companion?”

Alexei nodded. “I will never see her again,” he lamented, and bowed his head. Mila held out her fingers, and he pressed the tips of his to them for a moment, before sighing.

“I cannot give you a pardon,” he began, “but I will also try my best to delay their pursuit. I can lead them, as the Terrans say, on a merry chase. But I will need your help.”

Mila felt that same unspeakable warmth well deep inside her at that. “Thank you,” she said, meaning every word. “What will you need?”

“An attack.” He smiled. “I know you’re capable of vicious mental lashing. I’ve seen you put less fortunate sparring partners in the infirmary without even touching them. Make it look like you’ve attacked me, then take my ring. It will give you access to any ship in the Fleet that you need. Just don’t steal something noticeable.”

“Why are you doing this for me?” asked Mila quietly, leaning closer to him. The prince sighed.

“Because I sensed it, your connection to her,” he said quietly. “Very few Nevans ever experience such clarity, even with the ones they choose to bond with. When you meet someone who can make your world fall away with just a breath, well… there’s no chance for anyone else.” He gently squeezed her hand. “Find her again. The path of your star collided with hers for a reason.”

Mila kissed him, briefly. And then she closed her eyes, and knocked him out.

It would take the Nevan Police days to hear of her attacking her intended and stealing his ring to access a ship. It would take them weeks to find the missing starship, and months to track its jump signatures. But just before the Searchers could set out to retrieve her, someone hacked into the database and completely erased all traces of the _Firebird_.

Over the slumbering form of her brother, Sara Crispino, too, rushed to freedom in the stars. With Mila at her side, the two of them knit together a crew — a family — of rag-tag beings looking for adventure or escaping dire circumstances at home. They picked up a young talented Omega Allegrian medical student whose brains were being wasted in a dusty lab archiving old slides. They picked up a hitchhiking Nevan engineer who had memorised the entire schematics of every type of starship in the Federation. They picked up an Allegrian ambassador’s Alpha son, who had grown bored with life on Allegria and was looking for a change of pace.

And they picked up two Terran companions. Inseparable, contracted friends who would die for one another, and the rest of the crew, too. It had always been nothing short of a miracle that they hadn’t managed to do so before, but as Mila watches the screen go blank on the bridge of the Firebird, she couldn’t help but feel that same deep, unspeakable warmth slowly turn to ice.

“Yuuri!” she screams, as if that would make him more likely to respond. Next to her, Prince Viktor crumples to the floor, his breath rushing out of him in a wordless cry of anguish. Phichit catches him just before he hits the floor, but the prince tears out of his arms, rushing towards the door.

Mila had once been taught of the great Bond that superseded all bonds, the web that tangled together the minds of all beings. She had never quite believed in such a thing before, but now she pleads with it, begs with whatever celestial Beyond that could possibly exist for the chance that Yuuri — and Yura, and the other crewmembers — had survived. Shakily, she, too, rises to her feet, striding out of the bridge towards the aft, towards the former location of the boarding hatch. She can sense Sara tagging along a couple paces behind, wary but supportive.

As Mila draws closer to the corridor, the first thing she sees is that the engineers in the area have put a stasis field over the gaping hole in the side of the ship where the explosion had torn away the boarding seal and a chunk of the hatch.

The second thing she sees is four forms being rushed towards sickbay by Dr Minami.

“Your Highness, no, get out of the way! _Out of my way_!” screams the young Omega, bodily shoving Viktor back as the medibots vanished down the hall with the gurneys. “If you’re not on my medical team, I want you all fifty standard meters away from my sickbay, so help me. I will hurt you if you don’t comply.”

“Is he all right? Will Yuuri be all right?”

“They’ll both be fine, whichever one you’re talking about,” snaps Dr Minami, visibly irritated. “And in case anyone cared, so will the other crewmember. They were injured by the shrapnel, but they were actually out of the main blast radius.”

Mila bends down, picks up a set of twisted and broken glasses. Emil swipes it from her fingers, placing it in a small baggie.

“I’ll get to work on that,” he says, before nodding and shuffling back to the aft. Dr Minami does a Terran gesture, making a V with his fingers and pointing from his eyes to Viktor, before rushing off after his medibots. Mila sighs, nodding at Viktor.

“They’ll be fine,” she says. “Don’t worry.”

Viktor nods, looking down at the floor of the ship. “I think I owe you a pardon,” he says.

Hours later, with Sara on her arm, Mila watches Viktor sit by Yuuri’s bedside, entwining their fingers as he reads the Terran something from a touchpad. Yuuri’s vitals are steady on the board above his bed, and he’s laughing at something Viktor’s saying, his eyes never leaving the prince’s.

“When you meet someone who can make your world fall away with just a breath, there’s no chance for anyone else,” she says quietly. Sara hums her question, and Mila sighs. “Just something Alexei said before he let me take his ship.”

“You’ve always said you knocked him out and stole it,” Sara remarks.

“I might have said that to impress you,” replies Mila, feeling her cheeks heat up. “But what we have — what they have — that’s not something that happens often. Their stars collided for a reason.”

“Like ours?” wonders Sara, entwining their fingers. Mila nods.

“I hope they realise that something like this doesn’t happen every day.” Leaning over, she kisses her wife, their breaths mingling as their minds meet. “And they’ll be happier if they follow the path that will lead them back to one another.”

Sara nods, too, her eyes bright as they pull back. Even after all this time, Mila can still see nebulae in them, can still find them brighter than starlight.

“Let’s leave them to it,” she suggests, and Sara grins as she tugs her bondmate towards their quarters.


	13. and the rest of the world falls away

The flight back to Neva is more leisurely, trailing in the wake of the Nevan Fleet. News gets out about the events at the asteroid belt, which means naturally every media ship in the galaxy wants to trail the _Firebird_ back to Neva and constantly bombard the bridge with requests for interviews. NICA places a block on all media requests after the fifteenth denial, and the crew breathes more easily for it.

“Well, we had to tell them to fuck off and let you recover,” Phichit declares as he relates the story at Yuuri’s bedside. They’re in transit between jump points, the rest of the galaxy wheeling by faster than light itself. Yuuri’s personally glad he doesn’t have to be on the bridge for this; he inevitably gets motion sickness from watching the jump sequences.

“Thanks,” he says, looking up towards the ceiling. “How long until we reach Neva?”

“1 standard day,” says Phichit, consulting his touchpad. “We’re going slower than when we first went this way. Mila wants to give everyone the rest of their shore leave time, and go home to Rodnina and introduce Sara to her folks. She offered to let us tag along, but…”

“Viktor wanted to take me around the capital,” says Yuuri.

“Cool cool.” There’s a chime from the touchpad, and Phichit grins. “We’ve just gotten a sizeable payout from the Royal Family,” he announces. “I could make it rain credits, man. We’re set for a good while!”

“Not until you lose another betting pool,” retorts Yuuri, and Phichit smacks his arm to shut him up.

“Nah, I think I might blow it all in a different way,” he admits, his cheeks and ears suddenly flushing darker. “You know… I’m actually going to take some time off from the crew for a bit. Chris, too.”

Yuuri pauses. “Well, it was about time,” he says, and Phichit shoves him.

“That’s not the — okay, I might as well just — we’re getting a mediatorship.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow at that. “Don’t you need three people for a mediatorship?”

“Seung-gil makes it three,” replies Phichit. Yuuri’s other eyebrow flies up into his hairline.

“Seung-gil. _Wow_.” He presses a button, and the sickbay bed raises him into a sitting position. “I feel like I should have seen it coming, but somehow I didn’t. Congrats.”

“Well, between the two of us, I’ve always been the more observant one,” Phichit points out. Yuuri rolls his eyes.

“Point taken,” he says. “So, then… when is that happening, exactly?”

“Not immediately,” says Phichit. “Maybe in a couple standard months or so? Seung-gil is a dissertation away from graduating, and he wants to focus on that — I think he was saying that his advisor would kill him if he took time off _now_ , anyway. And Chris and I wouldn’t want to bail so soon, and we’d want to invite everyone to the ceremony, and… we’d have to _plan_ the ceremony too, jesus…”

“I believe in you.” Yuuri claps his friend on the forearm. “If there’s anyone out there who can save the galaxy while planning a mediatorship ceremony, it’d be you.”

“Thanks.” Phichit’s cheeks are still dark. “But you know what that means for the ICU, right?”

“Mating connections take precedence over friendship contracts,” agrees Yuuri. He sighs. “I never quite got why that has to be a thing.”

“I mean, it doesn’t take precedence over _friends_ ,” Phichit declares, “but you know, legally we could be separated after the mediatorship takes place. I just… want to make sure you’re okay with that.”

“I don’t think there’s a chance we will be, though. Not here.” Yuuri smiles at him, reaching out to squeeze his hand. The action feels stranger now that Viktor has attached a different significance to it, and Phichit seems to know that, too, as his cheeks flush again and he looks away. Yuuri swallows, leaning back against the pillows. “We’ve packbonded too hard with these aliens for them to want to get rid of us now.”

Phichit snorts. “No one in the galaxy is immune to the charm of us humans and our tendencies to pet everything that doesn’t hurt us — and even some that do.”

There’s a knock at the partition, which momentarily slides back to admit Viktor with a tray of food. “NICA made you katsudon,” he says, setting it down across Yuuri’s lap with a smile. “Hello Phichit.”

“I think that’s my cue to let you two talk,” says Phichit, rising from the chair and offering it to Viktor. “I’ll be a comm away if you need anything.” And with that he leaves, the partition sliding closed behind him.

Viktor takes the seat as soon as his footsteps recede, and folds his hands in his lap. Yuuri suddenly finds his replicated katsudon infinitely interesting, because looking at Viktor means having to think about the elephant in the room:

What will happen when shore leave ends?

What will happen when he has to say goodbye to Viktor? He’ll have to sweep up the shards of his heart and take them with him back into the stars, and hope that putting parsecs between him and Neva will help him patch it up. Thinking about that now makes the poor thing throb harder in his chest; instead, he focuses on shovelling the katsudon in his mouth and quietly lamenting the differences between the replicator and his mother’s cooking.

“How’s Prince Yuri?” he asks.

Viktor chuckles. “He could be worse. He complains about everything except Christophe’s kotchka, but he’s grateful, I swear. Thank you, again.”

“It was the right thing,” Yuuri demurs.

“You were incredibly brave,” Viktor points out.

“Or stupid. Terrans get that a lot.” Yuuri laughs, pushing the cutlet around with his chopsticks for a moment. “Or maybe I just have no sense of self-preservation.”

“Nor the preservation of the minds of empaths who care about you, it seems.” But Viktor is still smiling as he says that, and Yuuri vaguely wonders if his eyes had always been as blue as starlight, or if that was just the sickbay and his half-delirious mind.

“I like to live life on the edge,” he jokes, before settling back to eating. “Thank you for pardoning Mila, by the way. She has always been a bit sad about not being allowed to show us her homeworld, so… this will be good for her, I think.”

“Like you said, it was the right thing.” Viktor settles back in his seat. “By the way, how did NICA figure out the music I liked? My guest room’s playlist is constantly… what’s the phrase, on tip?”

“On point,” says Yuuri, rolling his eyes. “Terran 21st century slang. Is Phichit in one of his retro ‘born in the wrong century’ phases?”

Viktor laughs. “He may have tried to introduce me to an old Terran holofilm musical called _The King and the Skater_ , yes.”

Yuuri shakes his head, returning to his food. The silence between them lingers warm and comfortable, though again that perennial elephant lurks in the corner of his mind. Finally, though, it seems that Viktor can’t take it anymore, because:

“What do you want to see in Moyka when we return?” he asks.

Yuuri closes his eyes. “The caverns behind the waterfall,” he replies. “The Cloud Spires, the City Gardens, the musical cruises on the Moyka River.” He’s mostly listing off the most popular tourist attractions, but Viktor is nodding at all of them seriously, as if calculating an itinerary in his mind. “Maybe surrounding provinces? The Moykavino vineyards in the countryside, the Firetree Forest… the seashore at Slutsky.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “Many planets have a coast.”

“Hasetsu is a coastal town,” replies Yuuri. “My hometown,” he explains. “On Terra they have these birds called seagulls, and as a kid I’d go watch them pester the fishermen and fly out across the water. I haven’t done that in such a long time. Most shore leaves keep me mostly confined to one city or another, so if you’d prefer not to go —”

“No,” says Viktor immediately. “I’d love to show you the coast at Slutsky.”

“Okay.” Yuuri nods, exhales. He leans back against the pillow, letting the spoon fall to the tray. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you,” replies Viktor, reaching out to entangle their fingers. He presses his forehead to Yuuri’s; Yuuri quietly memorises the length of each of his lashes.

 _What will I ever do without you?_ he wonders. Viktor seems to sense the deep burgeoning sadness inside him, and leans his head down to capture Yuuri’s lips.

 _We have these next few days together_ , the prince reminds him. Yuuri clutches him a little tighter, pulls him in closer. The tray slips; Yuuri has to break the kiss to grab it and slide it onto his bedside table to avoid incurring the wrath of NICA’s cleaning bots.

 _Stay close to me_ , he pleads, though he knows there’s no guarantee of that. Viktor has his duties to his planet, and no matter how long he lingers, the stars will always be Yuuri’s first and most constant mistress, drawing him out with their siren call.

“You make my universe so quiet,” Viktor murmurs as he pulls back, pressing their foreheads together once more. Yuuri feels the tears rise in him, but with a herculean effort he pulls them back, tries not to let any sign of his devastation show outwardly. Even with Viktor’s mind so open to him now, he tries to close away the whirling black hole of despair deep within him, tries to contain its maw before it threatens to swallow Viktor with him.

“I think the translator took that literally,” he says. Viktor chuckles.

“I think so, too,” he agrees, and takes Yuuri’s hands, pressing kisses to the tip of each finger. “The closest Terran equivalent is ‘I love you’.”

Yuuri pulls Viktor back in like he’s drowning. “I love you,” he replies, but he doesn’t say it in Terran Standard. “More than I can possibly bear.”

Viktor smiles against his lips. Yuuri supposes he got the message.


	14. miles away (and out of reach from me)

Shore leave goes too fast for Viktor’s liking.

They arrive in orbit above Neva the first day, taking a hovercraft down to the surface. Most of the crew disembark in the towns surrounding the spaceport; others get off at the first terminal for transports to other parts of the planet. Mila and Sara are among them, their luggage laden with souvenirs for her family from all of the planets Mila had visited over the years of her exile.

“Remember what I told you,” Mila tells him, before sinking into a deep bow. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

“It was my pleasure, Captain Babicheva,” replies Viktor. “Give your family my regards.”

Yuuri hugs her and Sara before they step off the craft, and then subsides into quiet contemplation of the Nevan countryside as the hovercraft continues on its route.

For the first couple of days, Viktor takes Yuuri around Moyka, hitting all of the popular tourist spots, taking pictures on their comm devices for posterity. These pictures will be all he has left of Yuuri after the shore leave ends, so Viktor makes sure to smile brighter than ever in each of them, standing as close to the Terran as propriety allows.

Then, on the last couple of days, they take a private craft out to the quiet seaside town of Slutsky, where Yuuri stands on the soaring cliffs looking out at the churning, wine-dark sea, breathing in the spray.

“It’s not as saline as the seas on Earth,” he says. “But I like it here.”

“What about the local wildlife?” wonders Viktor, longing to slip an arm around the Terran. Yuuri shivers, the sea-breeze stirring at his hair as he looks out at the pale mauve clouds of the early sunset. In the distance, the wheeling shapes of sea-creatures lurk beneath the glittering waters, and the cries of avians circling higher in the sky echo across the bay.

“It’s like Earth,” he agrees, “but different. The water is redder, the birds… those are birds, I guess? They have different calls.”

Looking around to make sure there are no prying eyes, Viktor quickly takes the Terran’s hands. “Your hands are cold,” he explains. Yuuri’s cheeks flush the colour of the sea-foam, tugging at Viktor’s heart.

“I could live here, I think,” Yuuri says later that night, sitting up at the window in their little hotel room facing the sea. Here Viktor can enfold him in his arms, smell the scent of his soap and shampoo, and kiss him whenever he wants.

“I’d like that,” he admits. Yuuri laughs.

“Not forever, though. But at least for a while, wandering the beach with a berg by my side.” Yuuri leans back, his lips precious breaths from Viktor’s collar. “I could never stay in one place forever, I think. There’s just too much of the universe to see.”

“That’s such a Terran philosophy,” Viktor murmurs, carding his fingers through Yuuri’s hair.

“Terrans aren’t the only beings in this galaxy who want to see beyond what currently exists,” Yuuri replies. “Everyone in the Federation at some point had the idea to leave the atmosphere of their own planet and head for the stars. It’s not just us.”

“I suppose,” agrees Viktor. “Even the push for freedom and justice aren’t strictly Terran, either.”

Yuuri looks down at his hands then. “It’s a pity that that ended the way it did,” he admits. “I can’t help but think Anya had a point.”

Those words echo in his mind now as the shuttle pulls up to the spaceport at the end of shore leave. Yura is there to see them off, too, flanked on both sides by burly guards as he wishes each crewmember safe travels.

“You better send me pictures of Julia,” he snaps at Christophe, “or else I’ll send the Fleet after you.”

“I can arrange something with NICA,” replies Christophe. Yura then turns to Mila, sighing before bowing his head to her.

“Thanks for rescuing me, or whatever. I could’ve handled it myself.”

“Sure, you keep thinking that,” she teases, but salutes him nonetheless.

Viktor’s thank-yous and goodbyes are more perfunctory, his heart clenching a little with each one. It hadn’t been just Yuuri who had welcomed him onboard this crew — the others, too, had done their part to make him feel like one of them. But while he would miss them all, the prospect of Yuuri leaving is possibly the deepest wound this parting could bring.

He tries to steel himself, tries to bring back the void his heart had been accustomed to prior to meeting Yuuri, but as he runs out of other crewmembers to bid farewell to, the more his heart refuses to numb itself.

And then the world falls away as Yuuri stops in front of him again, looking at him for the last time. Viktor’s a little glad for his gloves; he doesn’t want Yuuri to feel the pain he’s experiencing at this moment. He can sense a twinge of something similar behind Yuuri’s defenses, and takes solace in the fact that this isn’t a burden he bears alone.

“You’ll keep in touch, right?” Yuuri asks. “Tell me about your bonding ceremony, your coronation, everything. I don’t know if I can make it to any of them, but I’ll try my best.”

Viktor hates him a little for that. For even entertaining the idea that there could possibly be anyone else for Viktor after this.

“Keep me updated about your adventures, then,” he suggests. “I want to hear about all the hearts you break.”

Yuuri flushes. “I don’t do that.”

They both know he’s lying. Viktor’s is proof of that.

“I love you,” he says instead, slipping one glove off to press his hand to Yuuri’s. The Terran’s eyes well with something Viktor knows in theory are ‘tears’, but it’s unsettlingly upsetting to see them up close. He never wants to be the reason for Yuuri to look like this, and yet —

“I know,” Yuuri manages after a moment, wiping at his eyes before pulling away, following the rest of the crew towards the gate for their ship.

As the _Firebird_ pulls out of the spaceport, Yura comes to Viktor’s side. “I thought I’d met the biggest idiot in the galaxy when I first met Gosha,” he says. “Swooning over that Anya even when she clearly wanted nothing to do with any of us… I still can’t believe she did any of that. How did we not see it coming?”

“She hid away more of herself than we’ll ever know,” Viktor replies, pressing his hand to the spaceport window. The _Firebird_ is a little speck in the distance now, just about to make their first jump out of the system. “She had to do it to survive. The entire system was more hostile to her than it needed to be.”

There’s a pause. “My point is, I thought I’d met the biggest idiot in the galaxy when I first met Gosha, but now? I think I have to change my mind.” Yura shakes his head. “You and that stupid Terran were more inseparable than an Eterian and its slime, and you just… wanna walk away from that?”

“I have duties,” replies Viktor stiffly. Out in space, the _Firebird_ winks out of sight. “I have to ascend the throne and dismantle the Searching industry. I have to make it so that Candidates and Adoptees have the option of refusing our offer. I have to ensure the fair and equitable treatment of these people, so we never get another Anya determined to unravel us like this, again.”

“You don’t think I could do that?” demands Yura. “I’m not a couple standard years away from having to give up my throne because no one on this badly-ventilated ice ball even remotely cuts it as my bondmate. You getting bonded out of nothing but duty is just going to make you more miserable than what it’s worth.”

Viktor swallows. “What would I do, then, if you’re going to rewrite Nevan history for me?”

Yura rolls his eyes. “What the _fuck_ do _you_ think you should be doing?” he retorts, jerking his head towards the control towers.

Viktor _runs_.


	15. watch the whole world disappear

Yuuri sighs, as the _Firebird_ clears the first jump away from Neva. Mila has been fielding job requests and offers from beings all over the galaxy who had heard about their successful rescue of Prince Yuri, and now want them to help find basically everything that had ever been lost. They’re currently on their way to Kerr to hear more about a cargo shipment of rare Hayakian artefacts that had disappeared en route to the University of S’nead, suspected to have been stolen by Orson Raiders somewhere past the Eridani System.

“Well, I guess if it turns out we run into the _same_ Orson Raiders as last time, that’s not going to go over well,” Phichit reasons as he dangles over Mila’s chair. At the helm, Christophe rolls his eyes.

“You know I’m always open to sweet-talking some Orsons again, dear,” he replies, fluttering his lashes.

“But you’re an engaged Alpha now. I don’t think Seung-gil would like it,” Phichit says, sighing. “Did you see what he texted us?”

“Yeah.” Christophe giggles. “His ice berg is the cutest! Have you shown him the hamsters yet?”

“Christophe, those things are Federation Class A Dangerous Exotic Animals,” Phichit chides, in a tone eerily similar to the Mandalan’s, before grinning from ear to ear. “Of course I showed him. He flipped out so hard. At least, I think he did. Does a Mandalan eye twitch count as like, agitated screaming?”

Yuuri looks down at his own touchpad. Nothing from Viktor so far. But no doubt the prince is already busy, stacking up a laundry list of duties longer than Yuuri himself. He wouldn’t want to disturb Viktor on his official business, so perhaps —

“We’re got contact,” Sara announces suddenly. “A ship of Nevan origin has jumped into the vicinity. They’re trying to hail us.”

“Patch them through,” says Mila. Yuuri looks up, hardly daring to hope.

Sure enough, the screen suddenly fills with the inside of a cockpit, followed shortly by the excitable visage of a brown, vaguely-familiar berg. Yuuri’s heart skips a beat; moments later it races even harder at the sight of Viktor pulling the berg back from the camera with a wide smile, his silver fringe falling roguishly in his eyes.

“Hey guys!” he says. “Is it too late to join the crew?”

Mila’s shock is evident on her face. “Your Highness!” she breathes.

“Just Viktor,” the prince insists. “I’ve… well, it’s a long story, how I got here. I just.” His cheeks are bright cerulean. “I’m being dropped off with Makkachin, if you have a boarding seal I can use? I think my pilot said he’s left the stove on.”

The next several minutes are a blur Yuuri can’t quite comprehend. One moment he’s on the bridge, watching Viktor beaming on the screen projection, the next he’s rushing through the corridors of the ship, tearing towards the hatch where the recently repaired boarding seal is opening to admit a perky, energetic berg (who nearly barrels into him) and a tall, beautiful Nevan prince.

Viktor is in his arms as quickly and as easily as breathing, burrowing his face in the crook of Yuuri’s neck. “I missed you,” he says, and Yuuri can’t help but laugh at that.

“We’d only been parted… how many hours?”

 _Eight_ , NICA chips in. _Welcome back aboard, Most Beautiful Crewmember of the_ Firebird.

“He hasn’t even filled out the paperwork,” Yuuri rebukes her. Viktor raises an eyebrow.

“Paperwork?”

“Joking.” Yuuri shakes his head. When he steps back, Mila comes forward and bows in greeting.

“Welcome aboard, Viktor,” she says. “Yuuri can show you to the room you were staying in, unless —”

“He’s with me,” says Yuuri immediately, taking Viktor’s hand. The corner of Mila’s mouth twitches knowingly.

“Then by all means, take the rest of the shift off,” she replies. “Help him settle in, introduce him to the rest of the crew… catch up.”

“Catch up,” repeats Yuuri, his cheeks flaring. Mila winks, and then spins on her heel and strides away. Phichit, who’d also made it down to greet Viktor, claps Yuuri on the back.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he says.

“That’s a lot of perfectly sensible things,” Yuuri points out. Phichit rolls his eyes.

“Fine, whatever, don’t take my advice.” He nods at Viktor. “Take care of him, okay? He might look like a Han Solo on the outside, but he’s even more of a disaster on the inside.”

”Who’s Han Solo again?” asks Viktor.

Phichit sighs. “I’ve clearly got my work cut out for me,” he declares, before following Mila down the hall with Makkachin chasing after his heels, trying to demand pets like a Terran dog.

“Well?” Viktor asks. Yuuri looks up, feeling that lump in his throat again. But this time, there’s nothing but warmth in his veins.

“Han Solo’s this character in this old Terran holofilm,” he says, flushing. “He’s a smuggler and a rogue, constantly running away from things.” He pauses. “He married a princess, too.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “I can see the comparisons,” he remarks.

Yuuri’s pretty sure he’s dreaming. There’s no way any waking person in the real world would ever compare him to Han Solo, and yet —

“Why did you come back?” he asks, sort of in a desperate attempt to change the subject. “Not that I’m not pleased to see you but — why? How?”

“Yura basically shoved me off the planet. Said I was the biggest idiot in the galaxy for saying goodbye to you.” He pauses, chuckling. “He was right.”

Yuuri smiles, pulling Viktor a little closer. The Nevan prince slowly takes off his gloves, stowing them in the pocket of his coat.

“There’s a common Nevan saying that that some stars are simply meant to meet,” he murmurs. “The collision of stars create the strangest things in the universe. Supernovas, black holes, planets…”

“Well, what are we, then?” Yuuri wonders.

“I don’t know,” admits Viktor. “But I’m curious to find out.”

And with that, he kisses Yuuri, entwining their fingers and pressing their foreheads together. Yuuri closes his eyes as their minds meet and the world falls perfectly silent; all that remains — all that matters — is them. Viktor exhales, and Yuuri feels it in his own lungs.

“Bond with me,” the prince whispers, his voice surrounding all of Yuuri in this space. All he can do is nod, already overwhelmed by the oneness granted at the tips of Viktor’s fingers. Before he even knows it, they’re in his quarters, pressed against the closed door, and the waves of pleasure at the feeling of Viktor’s mouth against his neck are already threatening to overwhelm him.

“NICA, turn off the camera,” is the last thing he instructs, before Viktor hefts him into his arms and carries him to the bed, and he loses track of the rest of the universe.


	16. say you were made to be mine

Viktor wakes to the feeling of wonder, and a strange inexorable fullness deep inside him.

Part of it is probably attributable to the fact that Yuuri is lying naked beside him, their limbs tangled together in a messy, post-coital glow. In the dim light of the room, he can see the freckles sprayed across Yuuri’s back, little dark stars in his skin that Viktor quietly connects into constellations.

He shivers at feeling an echo of his own touch on his own back. Being bonded is such a jarringly intimate new experience.

“You’re awake,” Yuuri’s voice rumbles from the pillow beside him. “What’s the time?”

_It is 0300 hours_ , NICA announces. Yuuri startles, and Viktor can’t help but laugh, leaning in to press his lips to Yuuri’s forehead. _Your new shift begins in 3 standard hours_. _That is ample time for another round_ —

“Okay NICA, you can butt out now,” Yuuri groans, his cheeks flushing. Viktor’s laughter grows. “I’m going to rewire her someday, I swear.”

“I think she’s charming,” Viktor says. “She thinks I’m the most handsome crewmember.”

“That was Mila for a good while. I think she has a thing for Nevans.”

Viktor laughs at that. “Well, what’s not to like about us? After all, you’re bonded to one now.”

“I can’t believe that happened,” Yuuri admits, but he’s smiling as he peers over the edge of the pillow at Viktor. Slowly, his fingers trail a line along Viktor’s sternum, up his chest. Viktor feels little frissions of heat run in the wake of his touch. “Will that get you in trouble back home? Since, you know, I’m not a Candidate and all.”

“Times are changing,” replies Viktor. “If Allegria can allow inter-species mediatorships, then Neva will have to deal with this.” He smiles, cupping Yuuri’s cheek. “And it’s just further proof of the outdatedness of the Candidate system, anyway.”

Yuuri’s smile is brighter than the stars outside. “Is that why you’re here? To help spread awareness of the flaws in the system?”

“It was my biggest excuse, yes,” admits Viktor, “and I certainly wouldn’t hold back from telling others the truth, but…” He leans over, pinning Yuuri down against the sheets, marvelling at the instinctual way the Terran seems to cling to him, press against him, “in all honesty I’ve been hoping to poach a Terran companion of my own, and I heard you’ve recently lost your contracted friend, so…”

“Ah.” Yuuri grins, his own hands now sliding down the curve of Viktor’s back, resting at his waist. “Well, then, I’d love to be your companion until I retire.”

Viktor’s heart has never felt so full in his life. “Then I hope you never retire,” he replies, and kisses him in Terran.

**Author's Note:**

> Perhaps the great error is believing we’re alone,  
> That the others have come and gone—a momentary blip—  
> When all along, space might be choc-full of traffic,  
> Bursting at the seams with energy we neither feel  
> Nor see, flush against us, living, dying, deciding,  
> Setting solid feet down on planets everywhere,  
> Bowing to the great stars that command, pitching stones  
> At whatever are their moons. They live wondering  
> If they are the only ones, knowing only the wish to know,  
> And the great black distance they—we—flicker in.
> 
> —Tracy K. Smith, "[My God, It's Full of Stars](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/55519/my-god-its-full-of-stars)"
> 
> This fic is dedicated to Nica, the inspiration for NICA. Evil AI is out, thirsty AI is in.
> 
> The character Anzwei Kuhn was borrowed with permission from exile-wrath, my cowriter on the TSM series. 
> 
> Additional thank-yous to everyone who enabled and supported me during the writing of this piece. I had no idea it'd get this long. I am so sorry.
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://omgkatsudonplease.tumblr.com/tagged/rewrite%20the%20stars/chrono)!


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